
class rH^ i 

Book. , t\ 75 

GopigfitTN? 



COFntlCHT DEPOSIT. 



SELECTED READINGS 



Uniform with this Volume 



THE ART OF SPEECH AND DE- 
PORTMENT. By Anna Morgan. 
12mo. $1.50 net. 



A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers 



SELECTED 

READINGS 

DESIGNED TO IMPART TO THE STUDENT 

AN APPRECIATION OF LITERATURE 

IN ITS WIDER SENSE 

COMPILED BY 

ANNA MORGAN 

AUTHOR OF 

"THE ART OF SPEECH and deportment'" 

AND "AN HOUR WITH DELSARTe" 




CHICAGO 

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 

1909 



Copyright 

A. C. McClurg & Co. 

1909 




Published May, 1909 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two OoDies deceived 

JUN 1 lUltt* 

Copyritfnt Entry 
CLASS(J A AXaf do* 

^ ^ a o 1 6 

COPY ST. 



THE UNIVERSITY PEE8S, CAMBEIDGE, U.S.A. 



3|n$cribeD 



TO 

jlatian, % Ua, an* Jesaie 

AND TO MY MANY OTHER ACTUAL AND WOULD- 
PUPILS WHO ABE INTERESTED IN THE 
ART OF READING WELL 



CONTENTS 



Page 

Index to Titles xiii 

Index to Authors xix 

I — PROSE SELECTIONS 

The Drama Richard Watson Gilder 25 

Pasquale's Picture Henry B. Fuller 26 

Their Dear Little Ghost f EliaW. Peattie 32 

Mrs. Ripley's Trip ,,.,,. Hamlin Garland 37 

A Red-haired Cupid Henry Wallace Phillips 42 

The Making of a Comedienne . . . Clara E. Laughlin 50 

A Social Promoter V/Ubur D. Nesbit 58 

A Tale of Old Madrid F. Marion Crawford 63 

The Gift of the Magi ...'.' 0. Henry 67 

The Courtin' of T'nowhead's Bell J.M. Barrie 72 

The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows . . Rudyard Kipling 77 

How Much Land Does a Man Require ? . . . Leo Tolstoi 80 

Her First Appearance Richard Harding Davis 85 

A Passion in the Desert Honore de Balzac 90 

Frederick of the Alberighi and his Falcon Boccaccio 94 

DomiNt's Triumph Robert Hichens 97 

The Man without a Country . . . Edward Everett Hale 101 

Two Letters and Two Telegrams .... Clyde Fitch 113 

A Lover of Music . Henry Van Dyke 115 

Fleas will be Fleas Ellis Parker Butler 119 

Uncle Remus on an Electric Car . Joel Chandler Harris 125 

A Speech of Lincoln's 128 

Selections from the Bible 130 

II — MONOLOGUES 

Her Husband's Dinner Party . . Marjorie Benton Cooke 137 

Her First Call on the Butcher . . . May Isabel Fisk 141 
Buying her Husband a Christmas Present 

Ruth McEncry Stuart 143 

Abbie's Accounts . . Tudor Jenks 146 

'Twixt Cup and Lip .-■■ Anonymous 149 

Wives in a Social Game Anonymous 151 



Viii CONTENTS 

III — POETRY 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

Page 

Hamlet's Instruction to the Players 157 

Hamlet's Declaration op Friendship 158 

Othello's Apology 158 

Mercutio's Description op Queen Mab 160 

The Seven Ages r 161 

The Motley Fool 162 

Benedick's Soliloquy . . 163 

Lite's Revels 163 

Juliet's Wooing op the Night 164 

The Potion Scene 168 

ROBERT BROWNING 

Up at a Villa — Down in the City 170 

summum bonum 173 

A Tale 173 

One Way op Love 176 

Youth and Art 177 

Confessions 179 

Time's Revenges 180 

Porphyrin's Lover 182 

My Last Duchess 183 

RUDYARD KIPLING 

Gentlemen-Rankers 185 

Chant-Pagan 186 

My Rival 188 

Boots 190 

EUGENE FIELD 

The Dream-Ship 191 

The Limitations op Youth 192 

Long Ago 193 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

The Old Man and Jim 194 

Out to Old Aunt Mary's 196 

The Life Lesson 197 



CONTENTS ix 



BEN KING 

Page 

Jane Jones 198 

She Does Not Hear 199 

If I Can Be by Her 199 

But Then 200 

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 

Accountability 201 

When Malindy Sings 202 

Angelina 204 

In the Mornin' 205 

Encouragement . . 207 

A Coquette Conquered 208 

The Tiger Lily ........... Joaquin Miller 209 

The Bravest Battle Joaquin Miller 211 

The Fool's Prayer Edward Rowland SUl 212 

Opportunity Edward Rowland SUl 213 

Opportunity John James Ingalls 214 

" Sweet-Thing " Jane John Vance Cheney 214 

The Happiest Heart John Vance Cheney 215 

El Camino Real John S. M'Groarty 215 

A Theme Richard Watson Gilder 216 

The Two Mysteries Mary Mapes Dodge 216 

The Cheer op Those who Speak English Wallace Rice 217 

Nasturchums Wilbur D. Nesbit 219 

With a Posy from Shottery .... Wilbur D. Nesbit 220 

The Man with the Hoe Edwin Markham 221 

De Habitant William Henry Drummond 223 

My Ships Ella Wheeler Wilcox 225 

Carcassonne Trans, by M . E. W. Sherwood 226 

"One, Two, Three" H. C. Bunner 228 

Provencal Lovers Edmund Clarence Stedman 229 

My Angel and I Blanche Fearing 230 

The Shadow Child Harriet Monroe 232 

The Whole Creation Groaneth .... S. Weir Mitchell 233 

The Lute Player William Watson 234 

The Day is Done Henry W. Longfellow 235 

Marguerite John G. Whittier 236 

Bill and Joe Oliver Wendell Holmes 238 

Auf Wiedersehen James Russell Lowell 240 



X CONTENTS 

Page 

Identity Thomas Bailey Aldrich 241 

Ulysses Alfred Tennyson 241 

The First Quarrel Alfred Tennyson 243 

The Daffodils William Wordsworth 246 

Abou Ben Adhem . . Leigh Hunt 247 

Cupid Swallowed ;_* Leigh Hunt 247 

O Captain ! My Captain ! Walt Whitman 248 

A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever . . . John Keats 249 

Good-night Percy Bysshe Shelley 249 

Verses on a Cat ........ ? Percy Bysshe Shelley 250 

Drink to me Only with Thine Eyes Trans, by Ben Jonson 251 

The Cotter's Saturday Night ...... Robert Burns 251 

The Child Musician .,,.....,, Austin Dobson 253 

Somewhere ........... Helen Hinsdale Rich 254 

On a Gray Birthday ......,,.. John Marshall 254 

America Samuel F. Smith 255 

The Star-spangled Banner ...... Francis Scott Key 256 

Home, Sweet Home John Howard Payne 257 

Self-dependence Matthew Arnold 258 

To Shakespeare's Love Edward J. McPhelim 259 

Cleopatra , . . W.W. Story 259 

The Ballad of Reading Gaol ...... Oscar Wilde 263 

IV— VERSE r 

Old Chums Alice Cary 271 

The Old Coat George Baker 272 

The Dead Pussy Cat . Anonymous 273 

Gran'ma Al'us Does A. H. Poe 274 

Talkin' 'bout Trouble . Carrie Jacobs-Bond 275 

The Unexpected Will J. Lampton 277 

Out of Arcadia ; . . . Harry Romaine 277 

Mammy's Lullaby Strickland W. Gillilan 278 

Kitty of Coleraine Charles Dawson Shanly 279 

The Little Church round the Corner . A. E. Lancaster 280 

Anne Hathaway Anonymous 281 

The Gate Bessie Cahn 282 

" Specially Jim " Bessie Morgan 282 

A Similar Case . Anonymous 283 

The Usual Way . Anonymous 284 

The Faithful Lovers Anonymous 285 

Platonic William B. Terrett 286 

Life Thomas Shelley Sutton 288 



CONTENTS XI 

Page 

She Liked him Rale Weel Andrew Wauless 288 

The Hindoo's Paradise .......... Anonymous 289 

A Dear Little Goose .......... Anonymous 290 

Mattie's Wants and Wishes ....... Grace Gordon 291 

V— SELECTIONS 

The Catechist Anonymous 295 

A Boy's Composition on Columbus .... Anonymous 295 

Madame Eef Anonymous 298 

An Italian's Views on the Labor Question . . Joe Kerr 297 

The Meeting of the Clabberhuses . . Sam Walter Foss 298 

A Club Meeting of Solomon's Wives . . Wallace Irwin 300 

When the Minister Comes to Tea Joseph Crosby Lincoln 301 

Aunt 'Mandy Joseph Crosby Lincoln 302 

A Study in Nerves Anonymous 303 

Love in a Balloon Litchfield Moseley 305 

In the Pantry Mabel Dixon 311 

VI — SCENES AND DIALOGUES 

Napoleon and a Strange Lady (From "The Man of 

Destiny") G. Bernard Shaw 315 

Nature and Philosophy Anthony Hope 329 

Yes and No Arlo Bates 333 

Parried Tudor Jenks 337 

At the Door Tudor Jenks 341 

At the Ferry Anonymous 344 

Come Here ! Anonymous 346 

Secrets of the Heart Austin Dobson 348 

Tu Quoque Austin Dobson 350 

Scene from "Paola and Francesca" . . . Stephen Phillips 351 

Brutus and Cassius (From "Julius Caesar"). . Shakespeare 357 

Scene from "As You Like It" Shakespeare 360 

Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford (From "The Merry Wives of 

Windsor") Shakespeare 362 

Scene from "Two Gentlemen of Verona" . . Shakespeare 384 

Dialogue from "Twelfth Night" Shakespeare 388 

Scene from "Coriolanus" Shakespeare 371 

Scene from " King John " Shakespeare 374 

Dialogue from "The Merchant of Venice". . Shakespeare 377 
Sairey Gamp and Betsey Prig (From "Martin Chuzzlewit") 

Charles Dickens 382 

Little Em'ly (From "David Copperfield") Charles Dickens 386 



Xll CONTENTS 

Page 

Dialogue from "David Copperfield" . . . Charles Dickens 389 

Dialogue from "Nicholas Nickleby" . . . Charles Dickens 393 

Dialogue from "The Pickwick Papers" . . Charles Dickens 400 

Scene from "The Mighty Dollar" . . . Benjamin E. Woolf 406 
Sir Peter and Lady Teazle (From "The School for 

Scandal ") Richard Brinsley Sheridan 409 

Scene from "The Rivals". . . . Richard Brinsley Sheridan 412 
Dialogue from 1'The Critic op the School for Wives" 

Moliere 415 

Selections from "The Last Da ys of Pompeii " Bulwer-Lytton 419 



INDEX TO TITLES 






PAGE 

Abbie's Accounts. Tudor 
Jenks 146 

Abou Ben Adhem. Leigh 
Hunt 247 

Accountability. Paul Lau- 
rence Dunbar 201 

America. Samuel F. Smith 255 

Angel and I, My. Blanche 
Fearing 230 

Angelina. Paul Laurence 
Dunbar 204 

Anne Hathaway. Anony- 
mous 281 

Arcadia, Out of. Harry 
Romaine 277 

"As You Like It," Selection 
from (The Seven Ages). 
Shakespeare 161 

"As You Like It," Selection 
from (The Motley Fool). 
Shakespeare 162 

"As You Like It," Selection 
from (Act IV, Scene 1) 
Shakespeare 360 

Auf Wiedersehen. James 
Russell Lowell 240 

Aunt 'Mandy. Joseph 
Crosby Lincoln ..... 302 

Ballad of Reading Gaol, 
The. Oscar Wilde ... 263 

Benedick's Soliloquy on 
Love. Shakespeare ... 163 

Bible, Selections from the . 130 

Bill and Joe. Oliver Wen- 
dell Holmes 238 

Boots. Rudyard Kipling . 190 

Bravest Battle, The. Joa- 
quin Miller 211 

Brutus and Cassius, Dia- 
logue between. Shake- 
speare 357 

But Then. Ben King . . 200 



PAGE 

Buying her Husband a 
Christmas Present. Ruth 
McEnery Stuart .... 143 

Camino Real, El. John S. 
M'Groarty 215 

Captain 1 My Captain! O. 
Walt Whitman 248 

Carcassonne. M. E. W. 
Sherwood (Trans.) ... 226 

Catechist, The. Anonymous 295 

Chant-Pagan. Rudyard 
Kipling 186 

Cheer of Those Who Speak 
English, The. Wallace 
Rice 217 

Child Musician, The. Aus- 
tin Dobson 253 

Cleopatra. W. W. Story . 259 

Club Meeting of Solomon's 
Wives, A. Wallace Irwin 300 

Columbus, A Boy's Compo- 
sition on. Anonymous . 295 

"Come Here!" Anonymous 346 

Confessions. Robert Brown- 
ing 179 

Coquette Conquered, A. 
Paul Laurence Dunbar . 208 

"Coriolanus," Selection from 
(Act I, Scene 3). Shake- 
speare 371 

Cotter's Saturday Night, 
The. Robert Burns ... 251 

Courtin' of T'nowhead's 
Bell, The. J. M. Barrie . 72 

"Critic of the School for 
Wives, The," Dialogue 
from. Molihre 415 

Cup and Lip, 'Twixt. 
Anonymous . 149 

Cupid Swallowed. Leigh 
Hunt 247 



XIV 



INDEX TO TITLES 



Daffodils, The. William 
Wordsworth 246 

"David Copperfield," Selec- 
tion from (Little Em'ly). 
Charles Dickens .... 386 

"David Copperfield," Selec- 
tion from (Miss Betsey, 
David, Mr. Dick, and the 
Murdstones). Charles 
Dickens 389 

Day is Done, The. Henry 
W. Longfellow 235 

Dead Pussy Cat, The. 
Anonymous 273 

Dear Little Ghost, Their. 
EliaW. Peattie .... .32 

Dear Little Goose, A. Anon- 
ymous 290 

Domini's Triumph. Robert 
Hichens 97 

Door, At the. Tudor Jenks 341 

Drama, The. Richard Wat- 
son Gilder 25 

Dream-ship, The. Eugene 
Field 191 

Drink to Me Only with 
Thine Eyes. Ben Jonson 
(Trans.) 251 

Encouragement. Paul 
Laurence Dunbar .... 207 

Faithful Lovers, The. 
Anonymous 285 

"Felicity," Selection from 
(The Making of a Comedi- 
enne). Clara E. Laughlin 50 

Ferry, At the. Anonymous 344 

First Appearance, Her. 
Richard Harding Davis . 86 

First Call on the Butcher, 
Her. May Isabel Fisk . 141 

First Quarrel, The. Alfred 
Tennyson 243 

Fleas will be Fleas. Ellis 
Parker Butler 119 

Fool's Prayer, The. Edward 
Rowland Sill 212 

Frederick of the Alberighi 
and Ms Falcon. Boccaccio 94 

Gamp, Sairey, and Betsey 
Prig, Dialogue between. 
Charles Dickens .... 382 



PAGE 

"Garden of Allah, The," 
Selection from (Domini's 
Triumph). Robert Hich- 
ens 97 

Gate of the Hundred Sor- 
rows, The. Rudyard Kip- 
ling 77 

Gate, The. Bessie Cahn . . 282 

Gentlemen-Rankers. Rud- 
yard Kipling 185 

Gift of the Magi, The. 0. 
Henry ........ 67 

Good-night. Percy Bysshe 
Shelley . 249 

Gran 'ma APus Does. A. H. 
Poe 274 

Gray Birthday, On a. John 
Marshall 254 

Habitant, De. William 

Henry Drummond . . . 223 
Hamlet's Declaration of 

Friendship. Shakespeare 158 
Hamlet's Instruction to the 

Players. Shakespeare . . 157 
Happiest Heart, The. John 

Vance Cheney 215 

Hindoo's Paradise, The. 

Anonymous ...... 289 

Home, Sweet Home. John 

Howard Payne 257 

How Much Land does a Man 

Require? Leo Tolstoi . . 80 
Husband's Dinner Party, 

Her. Majorie Benton 

Cooke 137 

Identity. Thomas Bailey 
Aldrich . 241 

If I can be by Her. Ben 
King 199 

Italian's Views on the Labor 
Question, An. Joe Kerr . 297 

Jane Jones. Ben King . . 198 
Juliet's Wooing of the Night. 

Shakespeare 164 

"Julius Caesar," Selection 

from (Dialogue between 

Brutus and Cassius) 

Shakespeare 357 

"King John," Selection 
from (Act IV, Scene 1). 
Shakespeare 



374 



INDEX TO TITLES 



XV 



Kitty of Coleraine. C. D. 
Shanty 279 

"Last Days of Pompeii, 
The," Selections from. 
Bulwer Lytton . . . . . 419 

Last Duchess, My. Robert 
Browning 183 

Life. Thomas Shelley Sut- 
ton 288 

Life Lesson, The. James 
Whitcomb Riley 197 

Life's Revels. Shakespeare . 163 

Limitations of Youth, The. 
Eugene Field 192 

Lincoln's, A Speech of. . . 128 

Little Church around the 
.Corner, The. A. E. Lan- 
caster 280 

Little Em'ly. Charles Dick- 
ens 386 

Long Ago. Eugene Field . 193 

Love in a Balloon. Litch- 
field Moseley 305 

Lover of Music, A. Henry 

Van Dyke 115 

ate Player, The. William 
Watson 234 

Madame Eef. Anonymous 296 

"Main Travelled Roads," 
Selection from (Mrs. Rip- 
ley's Trip). Hamlin Gar- 
land 37 

Making of a Comedienne, 
The. Clara E. Laughlin 50 

Mammy's Lullaby. S. W. 
Gillilan 278 

"Man of Destiny, The," 
Selection from (Dialogue 
between Napoleon and a 
Strange Lady). G. Ber- 
nard Shaw 315 

Man with the Hoe, The. 
Edwin Markham .... 221 

Man without a Country, The. 
Edward Everett Hale . . 104 

Marguerite. John G. Whit- 
tier 

"Martin Chuzzlewit," Selec- 
tion from (Dialogue be- 236 
tween Sairey Gamp and 
Betsey Prig). Charles 
Dickens 382 



Mattie's Wants and Wishes. 

Grace Gordon 

Meeting of the Clabber- 

huses, The. Sam Walter 



PAGE 

291 

298 

377 
160 



"Merchant of Venice, The," 
Selections from. Shake- 
speare 

Mercutio's Description of 
Queen Mab. Shakespeare 

"Merry Wives of Windsor, 
The," Selection from (Dia- 
logue between Mrs. Page 
and Mrs. Ford). Shake- 
speare . 362 

"Mighty Dollar, The," 
Scene from. Benjamin E. 
Woolf 406 

Minister Comes to Tea, 
When the. Joseph Crosby 
Lincoln 301 

"Moriah's Mourning," Selec- 
tion from (Buying her 
Husband a Christmas 
Present). Ruth McEnery 
Stuart 143 

Mornin', In the. Paul Lau- 
rence Dunbar 205 

Motley Fool, The. Shake- 
speare . 182 

"Much Ado about Nothing," 
Selection from (Benedick's 
Soliloquy on Love). 
Shakespeare 163 

Napoleon and a Strange 
Lady, Dialogue between. 
G. Bernard Shaw .... 315 

Nasturchums. Wilbur D. 
Nesbit 219 

Nature and Philosophy. An- 
thony Hope 329 

"Nicholas Nickleby," Selec- 
tion from (Mrs. Nickleby, 
. Kate, and the Mad Neigh- 
bor). Charles Dickens . 393 

Old Aunt Mary's, Out to. 

James Whitcomb Riley . 196 
Old Chums. Alice Gary . . 271 
Old Coat, The. George 

Baker 272 

Old Man and Jim, The. 

James Whitcomb Riley . 194 



XVI 



INDEX TO 

PAGE 



TITLES 



"One, Two, Three." H. C. 
Bunner 228 

One Way of Love. Robert 
Browning 176 

Opportunity. John J. In- 
galls 214 

Opportunity. Edward Bow- 
land sm 213 

"Othello," Selection from 
(Othello's Apology). 
Shakespeare 158 

Page and Mrs. Ford, Mrs., 
Dialogue between. Shake- 
speare 362 

"Palace of the King, In 
the," Selection from (A 
Tale of Old Madrid). F. 
Marion Crawford .... 63 

Pantry, In the. Mabel 
Dixon 311 

"Paola and Francesca," 
Scene from. Stephen 
Phillips 351 

Parried. Tudor Jenks . . 337 

Pasquale's Picture. Henry 
B. Fuller 26 

Passion in the Desert, A. 
Honore de Balzac .... 90 

"Pickwick Papers, The," 
Selection from (Sam and 
Tony Weller). Charles 
Dickens 400 

Platonic. William B. Ter- 
rett . _ 286 

Porphyria's Lover. Robert 
Browning 182 

Posy from Shottery, With a. 
Wilbur D. Nesbit .... 220 

Potion Scene, The. Shake- 
speare 168 

Provencal Lovers, The. Ed- 
mund Clarence Stedman . 229 

Red-haired Cupid, A. 
Henry Wallace Phillips . 42 

Ripley's, Mrs., Trip. Ham- 
lin Garland 37 

Rival, My. Rudy ard Kipling 188 

"Rivals, The," Scene from. 
Richard Brinsley Sheridan 412 

"Romeo and Juliet," Selec- 
tion from (Mercutio's De- 



scription of Queen Mab). 
Sfiakespeare 160 

"Romeo and Juliet," Selec- 
tion from (Juliet's Wooing 
of the Night). Shakespeare 164 

"Romeo and Juliet," Selec- 
tion from (The Potion 
Scene). Shakespeare . . 168 

"Ruling Passion, The," Se- 
lection from (A Lover of 
Music). Henry Van Dyke 115 

"School for Scandal, The," 
Selection from (Sir Peter 
and Lady Teazle). Rich- 
ard Brinsley Sheridan . . 409 

Secrets of the Heart. Austin 
Dobson 348 

Self-dependence. Matthew 
Arnold 258 

Seven Ages, The. Shake- 
speare 161 

Shadow Child, The. Harriet 
Monroe 232 

Shakespeare's Love, To. 
Edward J. McPhelim . . 259 

She does not Hear. Ben 
King 199 

She Liked Him Rale Weel. 
Andrew Wauless .... 288 

Ships, My. Ella Wheeler 
Wilcox 225 

Similar Case, . A. Anony- 
mous 283 

Sir Peter and Lady Teazle. 
Richard Brinsley Sheridan 409 

Social Promoter, A. Wilbur 
D. Nesbit 58 

Somewhere. Helen Hinsdale 
Rich . 254 

Spatially Jim. Bessie Mor- 
gan 282 

Star-spangled Banner, The. 
Francis Scott Key .... 256 

Study in Nerves, A. Anony- 
mous 303 

Summum Bonum. Robert 
Browning 173 

Sweet-Thing Jane. John 
Vance Cheney 214 

Tale, A. Robert Browning 173 
Tale of Old Madrid, A. F. 
Marion Crawford .... 63 



INDEX TO TITLES 



XVll 



PAGE 

Talkin' 'bout Trouble. Car- 
rie Jacobs-Bond .... 275 

V Tempest, The," Selection 
from (Life's Revels). 
Shakespeare 163 

Theme, A. Richard Watson 
Gilder 216 

Thing of Beauty is a Joy 
Forever, A. John Keats . 249 

Tiger Lily, The. Joaquin 
Miller 209 

Time's Revenges. Robert 
Browning 180 

Tu Quoque. Austin Dobson 350 

f Twelfth Night," Selection 
from (Act I, Scene 5). 
Shakespeare 368 

"Two Gentlemen of Ver- 
ona," Selection from (Act 
I, Scene 2). Shakespeare 364 

Two Letters and Two Tele- 
grams. Clyde Fitch . . 113 

Two Mysteries, The. Mary 
M apes Dodge 216 



PAGE 

Ulysses. Alfred Tennyson 241 
Uncle Remus on an Electric 

Car. Joel Chandler Harris 125 
Unexpected, The. Will J, 

Lampton 277 

Up at a Villa — Down in the 

City. Robert Browning . 170 
Usual Way, The. Anony- 

284 



Verses on a Cat. Percy 

SheUey 250 



When Malindy Sings. Paul 
Lawrence Dunbar .... 202 

Whole Creation Groaneth, 
The. S.WeirMitcheU . . 233 

Wives in a Social Game. 
Anonymous 151 

Yes and No. Arlo Bates . . 333 
Youth and Art. Robert 
Browning 177 



INDEX TO AUTHORS 



Aldrich) Thomas Bailey 

Identity 241 

Anonymous 

'Twixt Cup and Lip . . 149 

Wives in. a Social Game . 151 

The Dead Pussy Cat . . 273 

Anne Hathaway .... 281 

A Similar Case 283 

The Usual Way .... 284 

The Faithful Lovers . . 285 

The Hindoo's Paradise . 289 

A Dear Little Goose . . 290 

TheCatechist ..... 295 
A Boy's Composition on 

Columbus 295 

Madame Eef 296 

A Study in Nerves ... 303 

At the Ferry 344 

"Come Here!" 346 

Arnold, Matthew 

Self-dependence .... 258 

Baker, George 

The Old Coat ..... 272 

Balzac, Honors' de 

A Passion in the Desert . 90 

Barrie, J. M. 
The Courtin' of T'now- 

head's Bell ..... 72 

Bates, Arlo 

Yes and No 333 

Boccaccio 
Frederick of the Alberighi 

and his Falcon .... 94 

Browning, Robert 
Up at a Villa — Down in 

the City 170 

Summum Bonum .... 173 

A Tale 173 

One Way of Love ... 176 

Youth and Art 177 

Confessions 179 

Time's Revenges .... 180 



Porphyria^ Lover . . . 


PAGE 

182 


My Last Duchess .... 


183 


Bunner, H. C. 




"One, Two, Three" . . . 


228 


Burns, Robert 




The Cotter's Saturday 




Night 


251 


Butler, Ellis Parker 




Fleas will be Fleas . . . 


119 


Cahn, Bessie 




The Gate ....... 


282 


Cary, Alice 




Old Chums 


271 



Cheney, John Vance 

Sweet-Thing Jane ... 214 

The Happiest Heart . . 215 
Cooke, Majorie Benton 

Her Husband's Dinner 

Party 137 

Crawford, F. Marion 

A Tale of Old Madrid . . 63 

Davis, Richard Harding 

Her First Appearance . . 86 
Dickens, Charles 

Sairey Gamp and Betsey 
Prig (From "Martin 
Chuzzlewit") .... 392 

Little Em'ly (From 

" David Copperfield") 386 

Dialogue from "David 
Copperfield" .... 389 

Dialogue from "Nicholas 
Nickleby" 393 

Dialogue from "The Pick- 
wick Papers" .... 400 
Dixon, Mabel 

In the Pantry 311 

Dobson, Austin 

The Child Musician ... 253 

Secrets of the Heart . . 348 

TuQuoque 350 



XX 



INDEX TO AUTHORS 



Dodge, Mary Mapes 

The Two Mysteries ... 216 

Drummond, William Henry 

De Habitant ...... 223 

Dunbar, Paul Laurence 

Accountability 201 

When Malindy Sings . . 202 

Angelina 204 

In the Mornin' 205 

Encouragement .... 207 

A Coquette Conquered . 208 

Fearing, Blanche 

My Angel and I .... 230 
Field, Eugene 

The Dream-ship .... 191 

The Limitations of Youth 192 

Long Ago 193 

Fisk, May Isabel 

Her First Call on the 

Butcher 141 

Fitch, Clyde , 

Two Letters and Two 

Telegrams 113 

Foss, Sam Walter 

The Meeting of the Clab- 

berhuses 298 

Fuller, Henry B. 

Pasquale's Picture ... 26 

Garland, Hamlin 

Mrs. Ripley's Trip ... 37 
Gilder, Richard Watson 

The Drama 25 

A Theme 216 

Gillilan, S. W. 

Mammy's Lullaby ... 278 
Gordon, Grace 

M a 1 1 i e ' s Wants and 
Wishes 291 

Hale, Edward Everett 

The Man without a 

Country 104 

Harris, Joel Chandler 

Uncle Remus on an Elec- 
tric Car ' 125 

Henry, O. 

The Gift of the Magi . . 67 
Hichens, Robert 

Domini's Triumph ... 97 
Holmes, Oliver Wendell 

Bill and Joe '. * 238 



Hope, Anthony 


PAGE 


Nature and Philosophy . 


329 


Hunt, Leigh 




Abou Ben Adhem . . . 


247 


Cupid Swallowed .... 


247 


Ingalls, John J. 




Opportunity 


214 


Irwin, Wallace 




A Club Meeting of Solo- 




mon's Wives 


300 


Jacobs-Bond, Carrie 




Talkin' 'bout Trouble . . 


275 


Jenks, Tudor 




Abbie's Accounts .... 


146 


Parried 


337 


At the Door . . ... . 


341 


Jonson, Ben (Trans.) 




Drink to Me Only with 




Thine Eyes ..... 


251 


Keats, John 




A Thing of Beauty is a Joy 




Forever 


249 


Kerr, Joe 




An Italian's Views on the 




Labor Question . . . 


297 


Key, Francis Scott 




The Star-Spangled Banner 


256 


King, Ben 




Jane Jones 


198 


She Does not Hear . . . 


199 


If I can be by Her . . . 


199 


But Then 


200 


Kipling, Rudyard 




The Gate of the Hundred 




Sorrows 


77 


Gentlemen-Rankers . . . 


185 


Chant-Pagan 


186 


My Rival 


188 


Boots 


190 



Lampton, Will J. 

The Unexpected .... 
Lancaster, A. E. 

The Little Church around 

the Corner 

Laughlin,' Clara E. 
The Making of a Comedi- 
enne 

Lincoln, Joseph Crosby 
When the Minister Comes 

to Tea 

Aunt 'Mandy 



277 

280 

50 



301 
302 



INDEX TO AUTHORS 



XXI 



Longfellow, Henry W. 

The Day is Done . . . .. 
Lowell, James Russell 

Auf Wiedersehen .... 

LYTTQN fc I^ULWER 

lone and Nydia .... 

Julia and her Slaves . . 

The Witch's Cavern . . 
(Selections from "The 
Last Days of Pom- 
peii") 

Markham, Edwin 

The Man with the Hoe . 
Marshall, John 

On a Gray Birthday . . 
M'Groarty, John S. 

El Camino Real .... 
McPhelim, Edward J. 

To Shakespeare's Love . 
Miller, Joaquin 

The Tiger Lily 

The Bravest Battle . . . 
Mitchell, S. Weir 

The Whole Creation 

Groaneth 

Moliere 

Dialogue from V Critic of 
the School for Wives " 
Monroe, Harriet 

The Shadow Child . . . 
Morgan, Bessie 

Spatially Jim 

Moseley, Litchfield 

Love in a Balloon . . . 

Nesbit, Wilbur D. 

A Social Promoter . . . 

Nasturchums 

With a Posy from Shot- 
tery 



Payne, John Howard 

Home, Sweet Home . . 
Peattie, Elia W. 

Their Dear Little Ghost . 
Phillips, Henry Wallace 

A Red-haired Cupid . . 
Phillips, Stephen 

Scene from "Paola and 

Francesca" 

Poe, A. H. 

Granma 'Al'us Does . . 



PAGE 

235 

240 

419 
422 

424 

419 

221 

254 

215 

259 

209 
211 

233 

415 
232 

282 
305 



58 
219 

220 



257 
32 



42 



351 



274 



Rice, Wallace 

The Cheer of Those Who 
Speak English .... 217 

Rich,' Helen Hinsdale 

Somewhere 254 

Riley, James Whitcomb 
The Old Man and Jim . . 194 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's . 196 
The Life Lesson .... 197 

Romaine, Harry 
Out of Arcadia 277 

Shakespeare 
Hamlet's Instruction to 
the Players ...... 157 

Hamlet's Declaration of 

Friendship 158 

Othello's Apology ... 158 
Mercutio's. Description of 

Queen Mab 160 

The Seven Ages .... 161 
The Motley Fool .... 162 
Benedick's Soliloquy on 

Love 163 

Life's .Revels 163 

Juliet's Wooing of the 

Night 164 

The Potion Scene .... 168 
Brutus and Cassius . . . 357 
Scene from f'As You 

Like It" 360 

Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford 362 
Scene from "Two Gentle- 
men of Verona" . . . 364 
Dialogue from "Twelfth 

Night" 368 

Scene from "Coriolanus" 371 
Scene from * ' King John " 374 
Scene from "The Mer- 
chant of Venice "... 377 
Shanly, C. D. 

Kitty of Coleraine . . . 279 
Shaw, G. Bernard 
Napoleon and a Strange 
Lady (From "The Man 

of Destiny") 315 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe 
Good-night ....... 249 

Verses on a Cat .... 250 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley 
Sir Peter and Lady Teazle 
(From "The School for 

Scandal") 409 

Scene from "The Rivals" 412 



XXII 



INDEX TO AUTHORS 



page; 
Sherwood, M. E. W. (Trans.) 

Carcassonne 226 

Sill, Edward Rowland 

The Fool's Prayer . . . 212 

Opportunity 213 

Smith, Samuel F. 

America 255 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence 

Provencal Lovers .... 229 
Story, W. W. 

Cleopatra , 259 

Stuart, Ruth McEnery 

Buying her Husband a 
Christmas Present . . 143 
Sutton, Thomas Shelley 

Life 288 

Tennyson, Alfred 

Ulysses 241 

The First Quarrel ... 243 
Terrett, William B. 

Platonic 286 

Tolstoi, Leo 

How Much Land does a 
Man Require? .... 80 



Van Dyke, Henry 
A Lover of Music 



PAGE 



115 



Watson, William 

The Lute Player .... 234 
Wauless, Andrew 

She Liked Him Rale Weel 288 
Whitman, Walt 

O Captain ! My Captain ! 248 
Whittier, John G. 

Marguerite 236 

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler 

My Ships ....... 225 

Wilde, Oscar 

The Ballad of Reading 

Gaol 263 

Woolf, Benjamin E. 

Scene from ♦'The Mighty 

Dollar" 406 

Wordsworth, William 

The Daffodils 246 



PROSE SELECTIONS 



SELECTED READINGS 



I — PROSE SELECTIONS 



THE DRAMA* 

Supposed to be from the Polish 

I SAT in the crowded theatre. The first notes of the or- 
chestra wandered in the air; then the full harmony 
burst forth ; then ceased. 

The conductor, secretly pleased with the loud applause, 
waited a moment, then played again; but as he struck upon 
his desk for the third time, the bell sounded, the just- 
beginning tones of the wind-instruments and the violins 
hushed suddenly, and the curtain was rolled to the ceiling. 

Then appeared a wonderful vision, which shall not soon be 
forgotten by me. 

For know that I am one who loves all things beautiful. 
Did you find the figure of a man lying solitary upon the wind- 
fashioned hills of sand, watching the large sun rise from the 
ocean ? That was I ? 

It was I who, lonely, walked at evening through the woods 
of Autumn, beholding the sun's level light strike through the 
unf alien red and golden foliage, — 

Whose heart trembled when he saw the fire that rapidly 
consumed the dead leaves lying upon the hillside, and spread 
a robe of black that throbbed with crimson jewels under the 
wind of the rushing flame. 

Know, also, that the august forms wrought in marble by 
the ancient sculptors have power upon me, also the imagina- 
tive works of the incomparable painters ; and that the voices 
of the early poets are modern and familiar to me. 

What vision was it, then, that I beheld; what art was it 
that made my heart tremble and filled me with joy that was 
like pain? 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin Co., publishers of Mr. Gilder's works. 



26 SELECTED READINGS 

Was it the art of the poet; was it of a truth poetry made 
visible in human attitudes and motions? 

Was it the art of the painter — which Eaphael knew so 
well when he created those most gracious shapes that yet live 
on the walls of the Vatican ? 

Or was it the severe and marvellous art of the sculptor, in 
which antique Phidias excelled, and which Michael Angelo 
indued with new and mighty power? 

Or, haply, it was that enchanting myth, made real before 
our eyes — of the insensate marble warmed to life beneath 
the passionate gaze of the sculptor ! 

No, no; it was not this miracle, of which the bards have 
so often sung; nor was it the art of the poet, nor of the 
painter, nor of the musician (tho' often I thought of music), 
nor of the sculptor. It was none of these that moved my 
heart and the hearts of all who beheld, and yet it was all of 
these, 

For it was the ancient and noble art of the drama, — that 
art which includes all other arts, — and she who was the 
mistress of it was the divine Modjeska. 

Richard Watson Gilder. 



PASQUALE'S PICTURE* 



* "R ^^ su PP 0S i n g ne were n °t t° come, after all? " asks old 

J3 Assunta with some anxiety. 

* Never fear, madre mia," returns Pasquale, confidently. 
" Have I not said that he is a gran signore inglese ? He will 
do as he has promised." 

Ah, that was a day long remembered in Murano. What a 
wave of excitement rippled over the town, what an impulse 
of curiosity brought everybody flocking to old Assunta's 
house ! 

Pasquale is the hero of the hour. For the gran signore with 
whom he spent a day on the lagoon last week is coming to 
Murano expressly to make Pasquale's picture. So he stands 
here this sunny afternoon amidst his circle of friends and 
acquaintances; and he wears a mighty black felt hat upon 
his shapely head, and the big collar of a wonderful new plaid 
shirt — his mother's express make — lies over his broad, 

* By permission of the author and the publishers. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 27 

square shoulders ; and Assunta regards him with a fond pride, 
and Lucia with a timid adoration, while everybody, nocking 
down and around, choruses the advantage of having made 
such a friend. 

And, best of all, the picture is to remain Pasquale's own. 

Ah, but here is the signore inglese coming up the canal this 
very moment. Catarina at her window is sourly surveying 
the whole scene. Aha ! when has old Catarina ever had a 
guest like this? And everybody hastens to help the signor 
alight. Ho, there ! pass out the three-legged box with the 
hole in it ! Here, Gigi, you young rascal, take this other box 
full of bottles and things, and mind you have a care ! Wel- 
come, Eccellenza, to Murano ! 

Thanks to this gracious gentleman, they shall have Pas- 
quale with them always, after this. When he goes to Venice 
now and then, he will yet leave himself behind in Murano. 
Ah, what a joy this portrait would always remain for them ! 

S' accomodi, Eccellenza. Where shall we stand this strange 
machine? And where shall we put all these curious little 
bottles, each with a different color and each with a different 
smell ? — Yes, that will do very well — bene, benissimo. And 
now we will proceed with the picture without loss of time. 
Let the good Pasquale stand just about here, please, and rest 
his eye about there, and keep very quiet just a moment. Now, 
then. Girolamo sniffs ; he has seen the same thing done — ■ 
Bio mio, how many times ! — over in Venice itself. Assunta 
crushes him with one look. Quiet, please, my friends. A 
deep silence falls, while the great miracle is being wrought. 
An old crone scuffling by is frozen into stone by a multitude 
of hisses. Not a soul whispers. — There, now ; that 's all. 

What! done already? ? Sh! the signor is asking old 
Assunta for a dark room and a candle-end. Mystery ! Per- 
plexed Assunta — what shall she do ? A dark room and a 
candle ! Was this all quite — quite right and proper ? 

Oh, yes, indeed ; right and proper, and quite indispensable. 
So the magician is lost to the general gaze for a few minutes. 
When he returns his finger-tips are more or less stained and 
discolored, and he carries in one hand a square sheet of glass 
which he treats very carefully and scrutinizes closely, with 
one eye shut. Oho ! this, then, is the picture ! Come now ; 
let us see how it looks. 

Yes, but is it the picture, after all? How can it be? — 
this poor, pale, yellow affair that is not to be seen at all save 



28 SELECTED READINGS 

when held just so, and that looks quite as much like anybody 
else as like Pasquale. Our new friend is doubtless very kind 
and very clever, and means well enough ; but — Pasquale 
himself is quite crestfallen, and Assunta looks very dubious 
indeed. 

The signor takes all this with a careless smile; then, in 
due course, he pulls out a sharp lead pencil, and makes a few 
dots and scratches here and there on the shadowy face before 
him. Girolamo laughs aloud; the enraged Assunta glares 
with almost equal severity on both. And then the signor, 
with a reproving shake of the head, sets down the glass very 
carefully in full sunlight, and directs everybody to fall back 
beyond the possibility of throwing a shadow upon the image. 
So, then, there is something more to be done still; perhaps 
this is n't the real picture after all. Why, look ! look ! I beg 
of you ! The signor has placed a bit of paper under the glass, 
and the paper is turning black before our very eyes ! This, 
then, is the picture, the real picture, at last! Evviva! Ev — 

Quiet, my good people, for just a moment more. One or 
two small things still to be done, and then the picture will be 
ready to look at, to touch, to do what you please with. But 
for the present, pazienza. Then comes the last act of all in 
this thrilling drama : the signor whips out a sharp little pair 
of scissors from his vest pocket, trims the picture along the 
edges, fastens it deftly upon a stiff piece of cardboard, gives 
it a parting rub with his elbow, and then, holding it high 
overhead in his splotched and stained fingers, gayly cries : — 

" Eccolo! Ecco nostro bravo Pasquale!" And then, with 
a flourishing bow and an added " Complimenti" he hands it 
over to the gondolier. 

At last, the picture! It is stupendo; it is magnifico! 
Wonder ; delight ; ecstasy ! When has Pasquale ever been so 
proud and happy? And when, when has old Assunta ever 
been beheld in such a transport as this ? With a loud scream 
of delight she catches the picture from Pasquale's hand, kisses 
it again and again, and bursts into a flood of happy tears. 
(i Look ! " she cries ; " look ! See the eyes, the mouth, the 
hair, and every single little button on the shirt! Ah, vera- 
mente, it is my own dear son ! " Oh, was there another such 
son in all Murano ? And was there another such picture in 
all the world? 

Comparative quiet comes presently; and the signor, who 
has been constrained for the moment to turn away his face, — 



l 



PROSE SELECTIONS 29 

humbly thankful, perhaps, to have been made the instrument 
of so great a joy, — becomes himself again, and says that his 
little task is done, and that if they will allow him to wash his 
hands he will get his things together and try to reach Venice 
before sunset. 

Ho, friends, the gran signore stands to depart ! Hi, Gigi, 
you little monkey, lend a hand again with all those things ! 
Ha, what is it you have let drop ? Alas ! it is the glass picture 
that falls upon the pavement and breaks into a thousand frag- 
ments, you careless wicked boy ! No matter, my friends ; you 
have the paper picture all safe, and that is the chief concern. 
So, then, good-bye. The brave Pasquale will himself conduct 
his Excellency back to Venice. Again, then, addio! A rive- 
derci! Buon viaggio! Addio, Eccellenza! And so they go 
down the canal, Pasquale' s vast hat flapping to and fro in 
exact accord with the rhythmical movements of his strong 
and supple frame, and the gran signore gayly waving his cap 
with one hand and vigorously brandishing his stick with the 
other, until a quick turn in the middle distance puts them 
altogether out of sight. 

ir 

What need to say how precious the picture became in old 
Assunta's eyes ; how jealously it was guarded from all harm 
or mishap ; how proudly it was displayed before the admiring 
gaze of friends and privileged visitors ? 

But if the picture was precious now, how doubly precious 
was it to become hereafter ! Oh, fatal day — the day when 
Pasquale went over the lagoon to Venice, and was brought 
back stark and dripping, with his dark locks all matted to- 
gether and his bright eyes forever closed ! Terrible was old 
Assunta's anguish when they brought his dead body back to 
Murano ; and less violent, but no less intense and inconsol- 
able, was her grief when, the day following, the little funeral 
train glided back from San Michele and left Pasquale still 
to float on and on, eternally, with all the Venice that had 
been and was not. 

When Assunta entered the familiar but blighted chamber, 
the picture, now fastened on the wall, met her first glance. 
Ah, the picture ! In her great distress she had all but for- 
gotten it, and now her Pasquale, dead and buried though he 
be, smiles gravely and fondly down upon her. A thousand 
blessings upon the good Madonna who had sent so kind a 



30 SELECTED READINGS 

friend to leave them such a memorial as this ! Tears of grat- 
itude mingle with tears of grief, and the acuteness of her first 
sorrow is over and past. Their Pasquale is with them yet. 
The picture shall remain where it now is, a perpetual shrine, 
and he shall be present to them always, always — morning, 
noon, and night. 

There are those upon whom fate enjoins the graceless task 
of being cruel to be kind; and there are those to whom it 
assigns the infinitely harder lot of being kind but to be cruel. 
The genial young gentleman who whiled away an idle after- 
noon in that old Italian town never knew what a trail of 
doubt and despair and utter desolation his visit left, in the 
end, behind him. And may he never learn. ! 

It is only the third morning after Pasquale's death, and 
Assunta stands there before his picture, her hands tightly 
clasped together and her face clouded with doubt and anxiety. 
She rubs her old eyes; can it be that they are coming to be 
less sharp and sure than they have been heretofore ? 

" It seems to be fading," she murmurs, — " fading ! " 

Ah, my gay and gracious young amateur, are you quite sure 
that in all the haste and excitement of the moment you car- 
ried out completely every step of your process? Let us but 
hope so, for old Assunta's sake. 

" Oh, what a pity it is that it should not have stayed as it 
was at firgt. But no matter; it is still our Pasquale — 
caro ! " 

A sudden thought strikes Lucia. She looks anxiously, tim- 
idly, compassionately at the old woman, yet cannot find the 
heart to say a word. But she watches the picture. There 
seems to be no change at the end of one hour; none at the 
end of two. By afternoon, however, there is a change — the 
picture is dimmer; only a little, but dimmer all the same. 
Assunta sees it too. And they both feel together that the 
picture not merely has faded, but is fading all the time. And 
neither dares ask the other how all this is going to end. 

Assunta feels that something must be done, and done at 
once. To whom shall she turn ? She comes to a decision : she 
will go to the libra jo, that little old man who keeps a shop 
around the corner, who sells books that the learned can read, 
who has that beautiful image of the Madonna in his window. 
Why had n't she thought of him before ? There was a man 
who would know all about pictures, indeed ! — let him be con- 
sulted without loss of time. And the librajo comes blinking 



PROSE SELECTIONS 31 

to the front of his dingy little shop, and holds the picture 
up to the light with his fat hands, and rambles vaguely 
through a maze of words that has to do with everything but 
his own entire ignorance of the matter, and sends poor 
Assunta home with a dazed head and an aching heart. 

She dreads to-morrow. How will the picture look then? 
she asks herself a thousand times over. When to-morrow 
comes she is standing before the picture — which is now 
duller and dimmer than ever — questioning, with locked 
fingers and a tear-worn face, if no agency nor any power can 
stop this dread fatality. Is she doomed to remain in helpless 
contemplation of such slow-wrought ruin ? Must she watch 
powerlessly the sparkle fade from those bright eyes, the smile 
pass away from those fond lips ? No ; there is help for her 

— there must be — somehow, somewhere. She will go to the 
parroco, who has never failed her yet in time of need. She 
will lay the whole matter before him and pray for his 
assistance. 

So, with the picture in her hand, she trudges confidently 
through the sun — the fierce and blinding sun, the cruel, re- 
morseless, destructive sun, that is but too surely undoing all 
that he had done for them — to the house of the parish priest. 
Oh, who would have believed it ? Who could have thought it 
true ? The parroco himself, her main prop, her chief reliance, 
to fail her at a time like this ! Sick and dizzy and despairing, 
she turns her weary steps homeward. 

The picture goes on fading. Every half-hour brings its 
difference now. With a strong light and an intent regard the 
several features may yet be distinguished ; but they are fad- 
ing, fading, fading all the time, as stars do before the crude 
and garish coming of the cold first light of a winter morning ; 
and now and then some one of them goes out altogether and 
for aye. Finally comes the day — Assunta is at home alone 

— when even the outline of the general mass fades away as 
all else has faded, and the old woman, pressing her fingers 
to her aching eyes, and giving out a bitter and hopeless cry, 
feels that now, indeed, Pasquale has gone from her forever, 
and that a universal darkness has overtaken all things. 

" I have lost him twice ! " she wails, and falls back utterly 
crushed and broken. 

And yet after all this, does there not remain one final resort 
that cannot fail? Is there not one power to whom she can 
make a last and sure appeal ? She rises from the fragments 



32 SELECTED READINGS 

of her scanty repast, new vigor in her step and fresh resolu- 
tion in her face. She locks the door, crosses the courtyard, 
turns down the riva, and directs her steps toward the cathe- 
dral. The neighbors cannot counsel her ; the parroco cannot 
assist her ; she will appeal to the pity of the Blessed Madonna 
herself. 

Lucia returned home at twilight. The house stood de- 
serted: no light, no fire, no inmates. On the table were the 
scanty remnants of Assunta's midday meal, but Assunta her- 
self was nowhere to be seen. Some vague instinct prompted 
the girl to direct her search toward the cathedral. There 
appeared to be no one within; the church seemed to stand 
altogether empty. Or, no ; not quite. For from the darken- 
ing glory of the apse an immemorial Madonna frowned down 
her grim and inexorable refusal ; while on the chill altar steps 
below, a heartbroken old woman, with a faded brown card 
clutched in her stiffening fingers, bowed her gray head meekly 
and eternally before this court of last appeal. 

Henry B. Fuller. 

Abridged by Anna Morgan. 

THEIR DEAR LITTLE GHOST 

THE first time one looked at Elsbeth, one was not prepos- 
sessed. She was thin and brown, her nose turned 
slightly upward, her toes went in just a perceptible degree, 
and her hair was perfectly straight. But when one looked 
longer, one perceived that she was a charming little creature. 
The straight hair was as fine as silk, and hung in funny little 
braids down her back ; there was not a flaw in her soft brown 
skin ; and her mouth was tender and shapely. But her par- 
ticular charm lay in a look which she habitually had, of seem- 
ing to know curious things — such as it is not allotted to 
ordinary persons to know. One felt tempted to say to her : 

" What are these beautiful things which you know, and of 
which others are ignorant? What is it you see with those 
wise and pellucid eyes ? Why is it that everybody loves you ? " 

Elsbeth was my little godchild, and I knew her better than 
I knew any other child in the world. But still I could not 
truthfully say that I was familiar with her, for to me her 
spirit was like a fair and fragrant road in the midst of which 
I might walk in peace and joy, but where I was continually 
to discover something new. The last time I saw her quite well 



PROSE SELECTIONS 33 

and strong was over in the woods where she had gone with her 
two little brothers and her nurse to pass the hottest weeks of 
Summer. I followed her, foolish old creature that I was, just 
to be near her, for I needed to dwell where the sweet aroma of 
her life could reach me. 

One morning when I came from my room, limping a little, 
because I am not so young as I used to be and the lake wind 
works havoc with me, my little godchild came dancing to me 
singing : 

" Come with me and I '11 show you my places, my places, 
my places ! " 

Miriam, when she chanted by the Eed Sea might have been 
more exultant, but she could not have been more bewitching. 
Of course I knew what "places" were, because I had once 
been a little girl myself, but unless you are acquainted with 
the real meaning of " places," it would be useless to try to 
explain. Either you know " places " or you do not — just as 
you understand the meaning of poetry or you do not. There 
are things in the world which cannot be taught. 

Elsbeth's two tiny brothers were present, and I took one by 
each hand and followed her. No sooner had we got out of 
doors in the woods than a sort of mystery fell upon the world 
and upon us. We were cautioned to move silently; and we 
did so, avoiding the crunching of dry twigs. 

" The fairies hate noise," whispered my little godchild, her 
eyes narrowing like a cat's. 

" I must get my wand first thing I do," she said in an awed 
undertone. " It is useless to try to do anything without a 
wand." 

The tiny boys were profoundly impressed, and, indeed, so 
was I. I felt that at last, I should, if I behaved properly, see 
the fairies, which had hitherto avoided my materialistic gaze. 
It was an enchanting moment, for there appeared, just then, 
to be nothing commonplace about life. 

There was a swale near by, and into this the little girl 
plunged. I could see her red straw hat bobbing about among 
the tall rushes, and I wondered if there were snakes. 

" Do you think there are snakes ? " I asked one of the tiny 
boys. 

" If there are," he said with conviction, " they won't dare 
hurt her." 

He convinced me. I feared no more. Presently Elsbeth 
came out of the swale. In her hand was a brown " cattail," 

3 



34 SELECTED READINGS 

perfectly full and round. She carried it as queens carry their 
sceptres — the beautiful queens we dream of in our youth. 

" Come," she commanded, and waved the sceptre in a fine 
manner. So we followed, each tiny boy gripping my hand 
tight. We were all three a trifle awed. Elsbeth led us into a 
dark underbrush. The branches, as they flew back in our 
faces, left them wet with dew. A wee path, made by the girFs 
dear feet, guided our footsteps. Perfumes of elderberry and 
wild cucumber scented the air. A bird, frightened from its 
nest, made frantic cries above our heads. The underbrush 
thickened. Presently the gloom of the hemlocks was over us, 
and in the midst of the shadowy green a tulip tree flaunted its 
leaves. Waves boomed and broke upon the shore below. 
There was a growing dampness as we went on, treading very 
lightly. A little green snake ran coquettishly from us. A fat 
and glossy squirrel chattered at us from a safe height, strok- 
ing his whiskers with a complacent air. 

At length we reached the " place." It was a circle of velvet 
grass, bright as the first blades of Spring, delicate as fine sea- 
ferns. The sunlight, falling down the shaft between the 
hemlocks, flooded it with a softened light and made the forest 
round about look like deep purple velvet. My little godchild 
stood in the midst and raised her wand impressively. 

" This is my place," she said, with a sort of wonderful glad- 
ness in her tone. " This is where I come to the fairy balls. 
Do you see them ? " 

" See what ? " whispered one tiny boy. . 

« The fairies/' 

There was a silence. The older boy pulled at my skirt. 

"Do you see them?" he asked, his voice trembling with 
expectancy. 

" Indeed," I said, " I fear I am too old and wicked to see 
fairies, and yet — are their hats red ? " 

" They are," laughed my little girl. " Their hats are red, 
and as small — as small ! " She held up the pearly nail of 
her wee finger to give us the correct idea. 

" And their shoes are very pointed at the toes ? " 

" Oh, very pointed ! " 

" And their garments are green? " 

" As green as grass." / 

" And they blow little horns? " 

" The sweetest little horns ! " ' 

" I think I see them," I cried. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 35 

" We think we see them too," said the tiny boys, laughing 
in perfect glee. 

" And you hear their horns, don't you ? " my little godchild 
asked somewhat anxiously. 

" Don't we hear their horns ? " I asked the tiny boys. 

" We think we hear their horns," they cried. " Don't you 
think we do ? " 

"It must be we do," I said. "Aren't we very, very 
happy?" 

We all laughed softly. Then we kissed each other and 
Elsbeth led us out, her wand high in the air. 

And so my feet found the lost path to Arcady. 

The next day I was called to the Pacific coast, and duty 
kept me there till well into December. A few days before 
the date set for my return to my home, a letter came from 
Elsbeth's mother. 

" Our little girl is gone into the Unknown," she wrote — 
* that Unknown in which she seemed to be forever trying to 
pry. We knew she was going, and we told her. She was quite 
brave, but she begged us to try some way to keep her till after 
Christmas. 'My presents are not finished yet,' she made 
moan. ' And I did so want to see what I was going to have. 
You can't have a very happy Christmas without me, I should 
think. Can you arrange to keep me somehow till after then ? ' 
We could not ' arrange ' either with God in heaven or science 
upon earth, and she is gone." 

She was only my little godchild, and I am an old maid, 
with no business fretting over children, but it seemed as if 
the medium of light and beauty had been taken from me. 
Through this crystal soul I had perceived whatever was love- 
liest. However, what was, was ! I returned to my home and 
took up a course of Egyptian history, and determined to con- 
cern myself with nothing this side the Ptolemies. 

Her mother has told me how, on Christmas eve, as usual, 
she and Elsbeth's father filled the stockings of the little ones, 
and hung them, where they had always hung, by the fireplace. 
They had little heart for the task, but they had been prodigal 
that year in their expenditures, and had heaped upon the two 
tiny boys all the treasures they thought would appeal to them. 
They asked themselves how they could have been so insane 
previously as to exercise economy at Christmas time, and 
what they meant by not getting Elsbeth the autoharp she 
had asked for the year before. 



36 SELECTED READINGS 

" And now — " began her father, thinking of harps. But 
he could not complete this sentence, of course, and the two 
went on passionately and almost angrily with their task. 
There were two stockings and two piles of toys. Two stock- 
ings only, and only two piles of toys ! Two is very little ! 

They went away and left the darkened room, and after a 
time they slept — after a long time. Perhaps that was about 
the time the tiny boys awoke, and, putting on their little 
dressing gowns and bed slippers, made a dash for the room 
where the Christmas things were always placed. The older 
one carried a candle which gave out a feeble light. The other 
followed behind through the silent house. They were very 
impatient and eager, but when they reached the door of the 
sitting-room they stopped, for they saw that another child 
was before them. 

It was a delicate little creature, sitting in her white night 
gown, with two rumpled funny braids falling down her back, 
and she seemed to be weeping. As they watched, she arose, 
and putting out one slender finger as a child does when she 
counts, she made sure over and over again — three sad times 
— that there were only two stockings and two piles of toys ! 
Only those and no more. 

The little figure looked so familiar that the boys started 
toward it, but just then, putting up her arm and bowing her 
face in it, as Elsbeth had been used to do when she wept or 
was offended, the little thing glided away and went out. 
That 's what the boys said. It went out as a candle goes out. 

They ran and woke their parents with the tale, and all the 
house was searched in a wonderment, and disbelief, and hope, 
and tumult! But nothing was found. For nights they 
watched. But there was only the silent house. Only the 
empty rooms. They told the boys they must have been mis- 
taken. But the boys shook their heads. 

" We know our Elsbeth/' said they. " It was our Elsbeth, 
cryin' 'cause she had n't no stockin' an' no toys, and we would 
have given her all ours, only she went out — jus' went out ! " 

Alack ! 

The next Christmas I helped with the little festival. It was 
none of my affair, but I asked to help, and they let me, and 
when we were all through there were three stockings and three 
piles of toys, and in the largest one were all the things that I 
could think of that my dear child would love. I locked the 
boys' chamber that night, and I slept on the divan in the 



PROSE SELECTIONS 37 

parlor off the sitting-room. I slept but little, and the night 
was very still — so windless and white and still that I think 
I must have heard the slightest noise. Yet I heard none. 
Had I been in my grave I think my ears would not have re- 
mained more unsaluted. 

Yet when daylight came and I went to unlock the boys' 
bedchamber door, I saw that the stocking and all the treasures 
which I had bought for my little godchild were gone. There 
was not a vestige of them remaining ! 

Of course we told the boys nothing. As for me, after din- 
ner I went home and buried myself once more in my history, 
and so interested was I that midnight came without my know- 
ing it. I should not have looked up at all, I suppose, to 
become aware of the time, had it not been for a faint, sweet 
sound as of a child striking a stringed instrument. It was so 
delicate and remote that I hardly heard it, but so joyous and 
tender that I could not but listen, and when I heard it a sec- 
ond time it seemed as if I caught the echo of a child's laugh. 
At first I was puzzled. Then I remembered the little auto- 
harp I had placed among the other things in that pile of 
vanished toys. I said aloud: 

" Farewell, dear little ghost. Go rest. Eest in joy, dear 
little ghost. Farewell, farewell." 

That was years ago, but there has been silence since. Els- 
beth was always an obedient little thing. 

Elia W. Peattie. 

"MRS. RIPLEY'S TRIP"* 

From {'Main Travelled Roads" 

THE night was in windy November, and the blast, threat- 
ening rain, roared around the poor little shanty of 
Uncle Ripley, set like a chicken-trap on the vast Iowa prairie. 
Uncle Ethan was mending his old violin, totally oblivious of 
his tireless old wife, who, having " finished the supper dishes," 
sat knitting a stocking, evidently for the little grandson who 
lay before the stove like a cat. 

Neither of the old people wore glasses, and their light was 
a tallow candle; they couldn't afford "none o' them new- 
fangled lamps." The room was small, the chairs were 
wooden, and the walls bare — a home where poverty was a 
never-absent guest. 

* By permission of the author and the publishers, The Macmillan Company. 



38 SELECTED READINGS 

Suddenly the old lady paused, stuck a needle in the spare 
knob of hair at the back of her head, and, looking at Eipley, 
said decisively, " Ethan Eipley, you '11 haff to do your own 
cooking from now on to New Year's; I'm goin' back to 
Yaark State." 

" I want to know if y' be." 

"Well you '11 find out." 

" Goin' to start to-morrow, mother?" 

" No, sir, I ain't; but I am on Thursday. I want to get to 
Sally's by Sunday, sure, an' to Silas's on Thanksgivin'." 

" How d' ye 'xpect to get the money, mother ? Anybody 
died an' left yeh a pile ? " 

" Never you mind where I get the money, so 's 't you don't 
haff to bear it. The land knows if I 'd a-waited for you to 
pay my way — " 

" You need n't twit me of bein' poor, old woman, I 've done 
my part t' get along. I've worked day in and day out — " 

" Oh ! J ain't done no work, have I ? " 

" I did n't say you had n't done no work." 

"Yes, you did!" 

" I did n't neither. I said — " 

e< I know what you said." 

" I said I 'd done my part ! I did n't say you had n't done 
your part." 

" I know you did n't say it, but y 9 meant it. I don't know 
what y' call doin' my part, Ethan Ripley ; but if cookin' for 
a drove of harvest hands and thrashin' hands, takin' care o' 
the eggs and butter, 'n' diggin' taters an' milkin' ain't my 
part, I don't never expect to do my part, 'n' you might as 
well know it fust 's last. I 'm sixty years old, an' I 've never 
had a day to myself, not even Fourth o' July. If I 've went 
a-visitin' 'r to a picnic, I 've had to come home an' milk, 'n' 
it was just so in Davis County. For twenty-three years, 
Ethan Ripley, I 've stuck right to the stove an' churn without 
a day or a night off. And now I 'm a-goin' back to Yaark 
State." 

" But how y' goin' t' raise the money ? I ain't got no extra 
cash this time. Agin Roach is paid, an' the interest paid, we 
ain't got no hundred dollars to spare, Jane, not by a jugful." 

" Wal, don't you lay awake nights studyin' on where I 'm 
a-goin' to get the money." 

" Come, Tewky, you better climb the wooden hill," Mrs. 
Ripley said, a half -hour later, to the little chap on the floor, 



PROSE SELECTIONS 39 

who was beginning to get drowsy under the influence of his 
grandpa's fiddling. " Pa, you had orter 'a put that string in 
the clock to-day — on the 'larm side the string is broke," she 
said, upon returning from the boy's bedroom, " I orter git 
up early to-morrow, to get some sewin' done. Lord knows, I 
can't fix up much, but they is a little I c'n do. I want to look 
decent." 

They were alone now, and they both sat expectantly. 

" You 'pear to think, mother, that I 'm agin yer goin'." 

" Wal, it would kinder seem as if y' had n't hustled yerself 
any t' help me git off." 

" Wal, I 'm just as willin' you should go as I am for my- 
self ; but if I ain't got no money I don't see how I 'm goin' 
to send — " 

" I don't want ye to send ; nobody ast ye to, Ethan Ripley. 
I guess if I 'd had what I 've earnt since we came on this 
farm I 'd have enough to go to Jericho with." 

" You 've got as much out of it as I have. You talk about 
your goin' back. Ain't I been wantin' to go back myself? 
And ain't I kept still 'cause I see it wa'n't no use ? I guess 
I 've worked jest as long and as hard as you, an' in storms an' 
in mud an' heat, ef it comes t' that." 

" Waal, if you 'd 'a managed as well as I have, you 'd have 
some money to go with. Come, put up that squeakin' old 
fiddle, and go to bed. Seems as if you orter have sense 
enough not to set there keepin' everybody in the house 
awake." 

" You hush up; I '11 come when I get ready and not till. 
I '11 be glad when you 're gone — " 

" Yes, I warrant that." 

With which amiable good-night they went off to sleep, or 
at least she did, while he lay awake, pondering on " where 
under the sun she was goin' t' raise that money." 

Having plenty of time to think matters over, he had come 
to the conclusion that the old woman needed a play-spell. 
" I ain't likely to be no richer next year than I am this one ; 
if I wait till I 'm able to send her, she won't never go." 

The next night as Mrs. Ripley was clearing the dishes 
away, she got to thinking about the departure of the next day, 
and she began to soften. She gave way to a few tears when 
little Tewksbury Gilchrist, her grandson, came up and stood 
beside her. 

" Gran'ma, you ain't goin' to stay away always, are yeh ? " 



40 SELECTED READINGS 

" Why, of course not, Tewky. What made y 9 think that ? " 

" Well, y' ain't told ns nawthin' 't all about it. An' yeh 
kind o' look 's if yeh was mad." 

" Well, I ain't mad ; I 'm jest a-thinkin', Tewky. Y' see I 
come away from them hills when I was a little girl a'most; 
before I married y^r grandad. And I ain't never been back. 
'Most all my folks is there, sonny, an' we 've been s' poor all 
these years I could n't seem t' never git started. Now when 
I 'm 'most ready t' go, I feel kind o' queer — 's if I 'd cry." 

Ripley came in with a big armful of wood, which he rolled 
into the wood-box with a thundering crash. 

" It 's snowin' like all p'sessed. I guess we '11 have a sleigh- 
ride to-morrow. I ealc'late t' drive y* daown in scrumptious 
style. If you must leave, why, we '11 give yeh a whoopin' old 
send-off. Won't we, Tewky ? An' I was tellin' Tewky t'-day 
that it was a dum shame our crops had n't turned out better. 
An' when I saw oF Hatfield go by I hailed him, an' asked 
him what he 'd gimme for two o' ma shoats. Wal, the upshot 
is, I sent t' town for some things I calc'lated you'd need. 
An' here's a ticket to Georgetown, and ten dollars. Why, 
ma, what 's up ? " 

Mrs. Ripley dashed into the bedroom, and in a few minutes 
returned with a yarn mitten, tied around the wrist, which she 
laid on the table with a thump, saying : " I don't want yer 
money. There 's money enough to take me where I want to 
go." 

"Thunder and scissors! Must be two or three hundred 
dollars there." 

" They 's jest seventy-five dollars and thirty cents ; jest 
about enough to go back on. Tickets is fifty-five dollars, 
goin' an' comin'. That leaves twenty dollars for other ex- 
penses, not countin' what I 've already spent, which is sixty- 
five. It's plenty." 

" But y' ain't calc'lated on no sleepers nor hotel bills." 

" I ain't goin' on no sleeper. Mis' Doudney says it 's jest 
scandalous the way things is managed on them cars. I 'm 
goin' on the old-fashioned cars, where they ain't no half- 
dressed men runnin' around. As for the hotel bills, they 
won't be none. I ain't a-goin' to pay them pirates as much 
for a day's board as we'd charge for a week's, and have 
nawthin' to eat but dishes. I 'm goin' to take a chicken 
an' some hard-boiled eggs, an' I 'm goin' right through to 
Georgetown." 



PROSE SELECTIONS 41 

"Well, all right, mother; but here's the ticket I got." 

" I don't want yer ticket." 

" But you 've got to take it. They won't take it back." 

" Wal, if they won't — I s'pose I '11 have to use it." And 
that ended it. 

They were a familiar sight as they rode toward town next 
day. 

Mrs. Ripley wore a shawl over her head, and carried her 
queer little black bonnet in her hand. Tewksbury was also 
wrapped in a shawl. 

"Now remember, Tewky, have grandad kill that biggest 
turkey night before Thanksgivin', an' then you run right 
over to Mis' Doudney's — she 's got a nawful tongue, but she 
can bake a turkey first rate — an' she '11 fix up some squash 
pies for yeh. You can warm up one o' them mince pies. I 
wish ye could go with me; but ye can't, so do the best ye 



One cold, windy, intensely bright day, Mrs. Stacey, who 
lives about two miles from Cedarville, looking out of the win- 
dow, saw a queer little figure struggling along the road, which 
was blocked here and there with drifts. 

" Why ! it 's Gran'ma Ripley, just getting back from her 
trip. Why ! how do you do ? Come in. Why ! you must be 
nearly frozen. Let me take off your hat and veil." 

" No, thank ye kindly, but I can't stop. I must be gittin' 
back to Ripley. I expec' that man has jest let ev'rything go 
six ways f'r Sunday. Jest kind o' stow them bags away. 
I '11 take two an' leave them three others. Good-bye. I 
must be gittin' home to Ripley. He '11 want his supper on 
time." 

And off up the road the indomitable little figure trudged, 
head held down to the cutting blast. Little snow-fly, a speck 
on a measureless expanse, crawling along with painful breath- 
ing and slipping, sliding steps — " Gittin' home to Ripley an' 
the boy." 

Ripley was out to the barn when she entered, but Tewks- 
bury was building a fire in the old cook-stove. He sprang up 
with a cry of joy, and ran to her. She seized him and kissed 
him, and it did her so much good she hugged him close, and 
kissed him again and again, crying hysterically. 

" Oh, gran'ma, I 'm so glad to see you ! We 've had an 
awful time since you 've been gone." 



42 SELECTED READINGS 

She released him, and looked around. A lot of dirty dishes 
were on the table, the table-cloth was a " sight to behold " (as 
she afterwards said) , and so was the stove — kettle-marks all 
over the table-cloth, splotches of pancake batter all over the 
stove. 

When Ripley came in she had her regimentals on, the stove 
was brushed, the room was swept, and she was elbow-deep in 
the dish-pan. " Hullo, mother ! Got back, hev ye ? " 

" I sh'd say it was about time," she replied curtly, without 
looking up or ceasing to work. " Has ol' Crumpy dried up 
yit ? " This was her greeting. 

Her trip was a fact now; no chance could rob her of it, 
and now she could look back at it accomplished. She took up 
her burden again, never more thinking to lay it down. 

Hamlin Garland. 

Abridged oy Anna Morgan. 

A RED-HAIRED CUPID* 

HOW did I come to get myself disliked down at the 
Chanta Seechee ? Well, I '11 tell you. The play came 
up like this. First, they made the Chanta Seechee into a 
stock company, then the stock company put all their brains 
in one think, and says they, "We'll make this man Jones 
superintendent, and the ranch is all right at once." So out 
comes Jones from Boston, Massachusetts; and what he 
didn't know about running a ranch was common talk in 
the country, but what he thought he knew about running a 
ranch was too much for one man to carry around. He 
was n't a bad-hearted feller in some ways, yet on the whole 
he felt it was an honor to a looking-glass to have the pleas- 
ure of reflecting him. Looking-glass ? I should say he had ! 
And a bureau, and a boot-blacking jigger, and a feather bed, 
and curtains, and truck in his room. Strange fellers used 
to open their eyes when they saw that room. " Hello-o-o ! 
they 'd say, " whose little birdie have we here ? " 

Well, the next thing after Jonesy got established was that 
his niece must come out during vacation and pay him a 
visit. " Jeerusalem ! " thinks I, " Jonesy's niece ! " I had 
visions of a thin, yaller, sour little piece, with mouse-colored 
hair plastered down on her head, and an unkind word for 
everybody. I can stand 'most any kind of a man, but if 

* By permission of the McClure Co. Copyright, 1901, by the S. S. McClure Co. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 43 

there is anything that makes the tears come to my eyes it 's 
a botch of a woman. I know they may have good quali- 
ties and all that, but I don't like 'em, and that 's the whole 
of it. I was elected to take my buckboard and drive twenty 
miles to the railroad. I didn't mind the going out, but 
that twenty miles back with Jonesy's niece ! Say, I foamed 
like a soda-water bottle when I got into the bull-pen and 
told the boys my luck. 

"Well, I'll give that Eastern blossom an idea of the 
quality of this country, anyhow," thinks I. So I togs myself 
up in the awfullest rig I could find ; strapped two cartridge 
belts to me, every hole filled, and a gun in every holster ; put 
candle-grease on my mustache and twisted the ends up to 
my eye-winkers; stuck a knife in my hatband and another 
in my boot; threw a shotgun and a rifle in the buckboard, 
and pulled out quick through the colt-pens before Jonesy 
could get his peeps onto me. 

Well, sir, I was jarred witless when I laid my eyes on that 
young woman. I had my mind made up so thorough as to 
what she must be that the facts knocked me cold. She was 
the sweetest, handsomest, healthiest girl I ever saw. It would 
make you believe in fairy stories again just to look at her. 
She was all the things a man ever wanted in this world 
rolled up in a prize package. Tall, round, and soople, lim- 
ber and springy in her action as a thoroughbred, and with 
something modest yet kind of daring in her face, that would 
remind you of a good, honest boy. Red, white, and black 
were the colors she flew. Hair and eyes black, cheeks and 
lips red, and the rest of her white. Now, there 's a pile of 
difference in them colors; when you say "red," for in- 
stance, you ain't cleaned up the subject by a sight. My 
top-knot's red, but that wasn't the color of Loys's cheeks. 
No; that was a color I never saw before nor since. A 
rose would look like a tomater alongside of 'em. Then, 
too, I've seen black eyes so hard and shiny you could cut 
glass with 'em. And again that wasn't her style. Seems 
like the good Lord was kind of careless when he built Jonesy, 
but when he turned that girl out, he played square with the 
fambly. 

I ain't what you might call a man that's easily dis- 
turbed in his mind, but I know I says to myself that first 
day, " If I was ten year younger, young lady, they 'd never 
lug you back East again." Gee, man! There was a time 



44 SELECTED READINGS 

when I 'd have pulled the country up by the roots but I 'd 
have had that girl ! I notice I don't fall in love so violent 
as the years roll on. 

Well, I was plumb disgusted with the fool way I 'd rigged 
myself up, but, fortunately for me, Darragh, the station-man, 
come out with the girl. " There 's Reddy, from your ranch 
now, ma'am" says he, and when he caught sight of me, 
"What's the matter, Red; are the Injuns up?" 

" They ain't up exactly, but it looked as if they were a 
leetle on the rise, and being as I had a lady to look out for, 
I thought I 'd play safe." 

The color kind of went out of the girl's cheeks, 

" Perhaps I 'd better not start ? " 

I stepped up to her, with my hat in my hand. " Miss 
Andree," says I, " if you come along with me I '11 guaran- 
tee you a safe journey. If any harm reaches you, it will 
be after one of the liveliest times in the history of the 
Territory." 

At this she laughed. "Very well, I'll chance it, Mr. 
Red." 

" His name ain't Red," put in Darragh, solemn. " His 
name 's Saunders. We call him Red becus uf his hair." 

" I 'm sure I beg your pardon," says Miss Loys, all of a 
fluster. 

" That 's all right, ma'am ; no damage done at all. It 's 
useless for me to conceal the fact that my hair is a little on 
the auburn. Now hop in, and we '11 touch the breeze." So 
I piled her trunk in and away we flew. 

Bud and Dandy were a corking little team. They were 
snorting and pulling grand, the buckboard bouncing behind 
'cm like a rubber ball. 

" Goodness gracious ! " says the girl, " do you always go 
like this in this country ? " 

" Why, no," says I. " Hike ! " and I snapped the black- 
snake over the ponies' ears, and they strung themselves out 
like a brace of coyotes, nearly pulling the buckboard out 
from under us. " Sometimes we travel like this. You 're 
not afraid, are you ? " 

" Indeed I 'm not. I think it 's glorious. Might I drive ? " 

" If I can smoke," says I, " then you can drive." I 'd 
heard about young women who 'd been brought up so tender 
that tobacker smoke would ruin their morals or something, 
and I kind of wondered if she was that sort. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 45 

' " That 's a bargain," says she prompt ; " but how you 're 
going to light a cigar in this wind I don't see." 

" Cigarette/' says I. " And if you would kindly hold my 
hat until I get one rolled I 'd take it kind of you." 

She held my hat for a wind-break, and I got my paper 
pipe together. And then — not a match. I searched every 
pocket. Not a lucifer. That is more of what I got for being 
funny and changing my clothes. And then she happened 
to think of a box she had for travelling, and fished it out of 
her grip. 

"Young lady," I says, "until it comes to be your bad 
luck — which I hope won't ever happen — to be very much 
in love with a man who won't play back, you '11 never properly 
know the pangs of a man that's got all the materials to 
smoke with except the fire. Now, if I have a chance to do as 
much for you sometime, I 'm there." 

She laughed and crinkled up her eyes at me. " All right, 
Mr. Saunders." She blushed real nice. I like to see a woman 
blush. It's a trick they can't learn. 

But I see she was put out by my easy talk, so I gave her 
a pat on the back and says, " Don't mind me, little girl ! We 
fellers see an eighteen-carat woman so seldom that it goes 
to our heads. Let's shake hands." 

So she laughed again and shook. I mean shook. It 
was n't like handing you so much cold fish — the way some 
women shake hands. And Loys and me, we were full pards 
from date. 

Well, I don't have to mention that Loys stirred up things 
considerable around the Chanta Seechee and vicinity. Gee ! 
What a diving into wannegans and a fetching out of good 
clothes there was, and trading of useful coats and things 
for useless but decorating silk handkerchiefs and things! 
And what a hair-cutting and whisker-trimming ! 

But Kyle was the man from the go in. And it was right 
it should be so. If ever two young people were born to make 
trouble for each other it was Kyle and Loys. He was 'most 
as good-looking for a man as she was for a woman. They 
made a pair to draw to, I tell you, loping over the prairie, 
full of health and youngness! You wouldn't want to see 
a prettier sight than they made. 

Well, things went as smooth and easy as bob-sledding 
until it came time for Loys to be moseying back to college 
again. Then Kyle took me into his confidence. I never 



46 SELECTED READINGS 

was less astonished in my whole life, and I didn't tell 
him so. 

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" says I. 

He kind of groaned and shook his head. " I dunno," 
says he. " Do you think she likes me, Red ? " 

" Well, about that I don't think I ought to say anything." 

" Think so ? " says he, bracing up. And then, by-and-by, 
they went out to ride. They came back at sunset, when the 
whole world was glowing red the same as they were. I 
reached for the field glasses and took a squint at them. 
There was no harm in that, for they were well-behaved 
young folks. One look at their faces was enough. There 
were three of us in the bull-pen — Bob and Wind-River 
Smith and myself. We 'd brought up a herd of calves from 
Nanley's ranch, and we were taking it easy. "Boys," says 
I, under my breath, " they 've made the riffle." 

" No ! " says they, and then everybody had to take a pull 
at the glasses. 

" Well, I 'm glad," says Smithy. And darn my buttons 
if that old hardshell's voice did n't shake. " They 're two 
of as nice kids as you 'd find in many a weary day. And 
I wish 'em all the luck in the world." 

" So do I, and I really think the best we could do for 'em 
would be to shoot Jones." 

" Let 's go out and meet 'em ! " And away we went. 
. They were n't a particle surprised. I suppose they thought 
the whole universe had stopped to look on. We pump- 
handled away and laughed, and Loys she laughed kind of 
peart, and Kyle he looked red in the face and proud and 
happy and shamed of himself, and we all felt loosened up 
considerable ; but I told him on the quiet, " Take that fool 
grin off your faee, unless you want Uncle Jones to drop 
the moment he sees you." 

Now they only had three days left to get an action on 
them, as that was the time set for Loys to go back to college. 
Next day they held a council behind the big barn, and they 
called in Uncle Red, otherwise known as Big Red Saunders. 

" Skip," says I. " Fly for town and get married, and 
come back and tell Jonesy about it. It 's a pesky sight 
stronger argument to tell him what you have done than 
what you're going to do." 

They could n't quite agree with that. They thought it was 
sneaky. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 47 

" So it is," says I. " The first art of war is understand- 
ing how to make a grand sneak. If you don't want to take 
my advice you can wait." That did n't hit them just right 
either. 

" What will we wait for ? " says Kyle. 

"Exercise — and the kind you don't take when you get 
as old and as sensible as me. You're taking long chances, 
both of you ; but it 's just like playing cards, you might as 
well put all your money on the first turn, win or lose, as to 
try and play system. Systems don't work in faro, nor love 
affairs, nor any other game of chance. Be gone. Put your 
marker on the grand raffle. In other words take the first 
horse to town and get married. Ten chances to one Jonesy 
will have the laugh on you before the year is out." 

They decided that they'd think it over until next day, 
but that turned out to be too late, for what must Kyle do 
but get chucked from his horse and have his leg broke near 
the hip? You don't want to take any love affairs onto the 
back of a bad horse, now you mark me ! 

Now here was a hurrah! Loys, she dasn't cry, for fear 
of uncle; and Kyle, he used the sinfullest language known 
to the tongue of man. 'T was the first time I 'd ever heard 
him say anything much, but he made it clear it was n't be- 
cause he could n't. 

" What will we do, Red? What will we do? " says he. 

"Now," says I, "don't bile over like that, because it's 
bad for your leg." 

He cussed the leg. 

" Go on and tell me what we can do," says he. 

"When you ask me that, you've pulled the right bell. 
I'll tell you exactly what we'll do. I go for the doctor. 
Savvy? Well, I bring back the minister at the same time. 
Angevine, he loses the Jersey cow over in the cane-brake, 
and uncle and Angevine go hunting her, for not even Loys 
is ace high in uncle's mind alongside that cow. The rest is 
easy." 

"Red, you're a brick — you're the best fellow alive," 
says Kyle. 

" I 've tried to conceal it all my life, but I knew it would 
be discovered some day," says I. "Well, I suppose I'd 
better break the news to Loys — 'twould n't be any more 
than polite." 

"Oh, Lord! I wonder if she'll be willing?" says he. 



48 SELECTED READINGS 

She was willing all right — even anxious. There 's some 
women, and men too for that matter, who go through life 
like a cat through a back alley, not caring a cuss for either 
end or the middle. They would have been content to wait. 
Not so Loys. She wanted her Kyle, her poor Kyle, and 
she wanted him quick. That's the kind of people for me! 
Your cautious folk are all the time falling down wells be- 
cause their eyes are up in the air, keeping tabs so that they 
can dodge shooting stars. 

Now, I had a minister friend up in town, Father Slade 
by name. No, he was not a Catholic, I think. They called 
him " Father/' because it fitted him. His church has a 
steeple on it, anyhow, so it was no maverick. I knew the old 
man would do me a favor if it could be done, so I pulled 
out easy in my mind. 

First place, I stopped at the doctor's, because I felt they 
might fix up the marrying business some other time, but if 
a leg that 's broke in the upper joint ain't set right, you can 
see a large dark-complected hunk of trouble over the party's 
left shoulder for the rest of his days. The doctor was out, 
so I left word for him what was wanted, and to be ready 
when I got back, and pulled for Father Slade's. The old 
gentleman had the rheumatism and he groaned when I 
come in. 

" Dear ! dear ! " says he. " The hurry and skurry of young 
folks ! How idle it seems when you get fifty years away from 
it, and see how little anything counts ! For all that, I thank 
God," says he, " that there 's a little red left in my blood yet, 
which makes me sympathize with them. But the girl's 
people object, you say ? " 

I made that all clear to him. " The girl 's always all 
right, Father," says I, " and as for the man in this case, 
my word for him." 

" Give me your arm to the wagon." He put his arm on 
my shoulder and hobbled his weight off the game leg. " Per- 
haps you 'd better pick me up and carry me bodily." 

When we reached the ranch the boys were lined up to meet 
us. " Hurry along ! " they called. " Angey can't keep uncle 
amused all day ! " 

So we hustled. Kyle was for being married first, and then 
having his leg set, but I put my foot down flat. It had 
gone long enough now, and I was n't going to have him 
crippling it all his life. But the doctor worked like a man 



PROSE SELECTIONS 49 

who gets paid by the piece, and in less than no time we 
were able to call Loys in. 

We'd got settled to business when in comes Angevine, 
puffing like a buffalo. " For Heaven's sakes ! Ain't you 
finished yet ? " says he. " Well, you want to be at it, for the 
old man ain't over two minutes behind me, coming fast." 

Well, sir, at this old Father Slade stood right up, for- 
getting that foot entirely. 

" Children, be ready," says he, and he went over the line 
for a record. 

u Hurry there ! " hollers old Bob from the outside, where 
he was on watch ; " here comes uncle up the long coulee ! " 

" What are your names ? " says Father Slade. They told 
them, both red'ning. 

" Do you, Kyle, take this woman, Loys, to have and keep 
track of, come hell or high water, her heirs and assigns for 
ever?" — or such a matter — says he, all in one breath. 
They both said they did. 

Things flew till we came to the ring. There was a hitch. 
We had plumb forgotten that important article. For a 
minute I felt stingy; then I cussed myself for a mean old 
long-horn, and dived into my box. 

" Here, take this ! " I says ; " it was my mother's ! " 

" Oh, Red ! You must n't part with that ! " cried Loys, 
her eyes filling up. 

" Don't waste time talking ; I put through what I tackle. 
Hurry, please, Father." 

"Has anybody any objections to these proceedings?" 
says he. 

" I have," says I, " but I won't mention 'em. Give them 
the verdict." 

" I pronounce you man and wife. Let us pray," says he. 

"Wnat's that?" screeches Uncle Jonesy from the door- 
way. And then he gave us the queerest prayer you ever 
heard in your life. He stood on one toe and clawed chunks 
out of the air while he delivered it. 

He seemed to have it in for me in particular. "You 
villain! You rascal! You red-headed rascal! You did 
this! I know you did!" 

" Oh, uncle ! " says I, " forgive me ! Go up and con- 
gratulate 'em." 

"I won't. Ouch! Yes, I will! I will!" So up he goes, 
grinding his teeth. 

4 



50 SELECTED READINGS 

"I wish you every happiness/' 

"Won't you forgive me, uncle?" begs Loys. 

" Some other time, some other time ! " he hollers, and he 
pranced out of the house like a hosstyle spider, the maddest 
little man in the Territory. 

The rest of Loys's folks was in an unpleasant frame of 
mind too. Howsomever the whole outfit came round in 
time. 

Henry Wallace Phillips. 

Abridged by Anna Morgan. 

THE MAKING OF A COMEDIENNE 

From "Felicity" 

PROBABLY only one thing could have kept Phineas 
Morton in Millville all Summer, but that thing hap- 
pened: he fell ill before he had been with his daughter a 
week. During his convalescence the interminable days were 
chiefly beguiled by Felicity. The child was completely fas- 
cinated by Phineas and he found her the winsomest thing 
he had ever known. 

Day after day, the old man and the little girl sat together 
and held converse about things he knew and things she 
knew and things that never were on land or sea. As for her, 
nothing was of sufficient charm to take her away from this 
wondrous being who dreamed her dreams ; who knew equally 
well about the hobgoblins and Queen Mary, and who under- 
stood perfectly when you told him how hard it was to keep 
from laughing in church because the precentor looked so 
much like the Cheshire Cat in that entrancing "Alice in 
Wonderland." 

" I tell you, that play-actor 's no fit company for a child," 
said Jane Fergus, when Felicity had obediently given ac- 
count of herself since dinner. 

" I can't see that he 's doing her a bit of harm," Amelia 
retorted. 

" You '11 not see it till it 's too late to mend." And Fe- 
licity wondered till she was weary what irreparable harm 
could come to her through Mr. Morton, and why gran'ma 
could not be made to feel as she felt his fascinations. 

She was coming early through her first experience of that 
universal distress in which we battle with the prejudice of 
our powers that be against our dearest enchantment. No 



PROSE SELECTIONS 51 

one of us, presumably, grows to maturity without suffering 
some degree of the resentment that comes when ruthless 
hands try to break the bonds of our willing thraldom and 
set us free when we are wishful only to stay bound. 

Meditating on the strange perversity of gran'ma and 
wishing delicacy did not forbid her asking Mr. Morton about 
it, Felicity slipped from her chair when permission was 
granted, and went into the kitchen to fill in a too brief 
interval before evening prayers. 

Zilianne, who had been her nurse while she needed one, 
now filled the office of cook. In the course of the supper 
hour she had gone into her pantry and found a mouse-trap 
sprung and a tiny, long-sought culprit inside. 

Felicity greeted the mouse with eager interest. 

" Oh, what you goin' to do with him, Zilly? " 

" Sho' gwine ter drown 'im, honey, he bin a-eatin' mah 
cohn-meal; now Fse ketched 'im Fse gwine mek 'im sorry 
fer 'is sins." 

" He 's sorry now." 

" Not so sorry as he 'm gwine ter be." 

" Please don't, Zilly — please don't drown him ! Give 
him to me an' I '11 carry him mi-iles away, where he can't 
ever get back any more." 

" How kin I gi' 'im ter you ? You ain't think I'se gwine 
ter let you traipse off wid mah onlies' mice-trap, is you? 
I sho' would n' nevah see hit agin." 

" Give him to me in a little box, then. Wait — " 

Felicity was upstairs and down again in a twinkling, 
bringing with her a small pasteboard box hastily emptied 
of some doll-rag hoardings. 

" Put him in here, please, and I '11 carry him a-wa-ay off." 

So Zilianne put the box down close to the trap and lifted 
the wire door, then clapped the box cover on and handed 
over the reprieved, with many cautions. 

" First I must poke holes in his housey, so he can breathe. 
And then I must put him in some supper, so he won't starve." 

"Ain't gwine ter starve ter-night, he des' bustin' full o' 
yo' gran'ma's cheese an' meal." 

"Well, le's put him in a piece for breakfas'; maybe he 
won't know how to find breakfas', far away like I 'm goin' 
to take him." 

The cheese thus eloquently begged was scarcely crammed 
through the air holes — somewhat to the exclusion of air — <• 



52 SELECTED READINGS 

when the call to prayers was sounded peremptorily from the 
sitting-room. 

Felicity meant to keep " Mr. Mouse " until the morning ; 
it was asking too much of human nature to expect she would 
give him up sooner. 

To prayers, therefore, went Mr. Mouse — which was no 
more than proper after his narrow escape from the destroyer 
— and in his queerly riddled cardboard home was stealthily 
deposited in the obscurest corner of the sitting-room, beyond 
which corner, if the truth be told, Felicity's thoughts did not 
once soar during the Scripture reading and hymn-singing. 
Then gran'ma, looking over the top of her spectacles at Fe- 
licity, asked solemnly: 

"What is sin?" 

Felicity started guiltily as she thought of Mr. Mouse. 

" Sin is any want of comformity unto or transgression of 
the law of God." 

It was strange that gran'ma's evening question, selected at 
random from " The Shorter Catechism " to keep Felicity 
from forgetting any of it, should have proved so disconcert- 
ing. But Felicity, who knew in a way what the big words 
meant, assured herself that if keeping a poor little mouse 
overnight was any want of comf ormity unto or transgression 
of the law of God, she 'd never been told so. 

She was so thinking as she knelt while gran'ma prayed, 
when there was a shrill scream, the prayer came abruptly to 
an end, and she jumped up to find gran'ma shaking her 
voluminous, crinolined skirts excitedly and crying, " Scat ! 
Scat!" 

For a moment Felicity was scared; her gran'ma's panic 
was so very real. But when Mr. Mouse had been shaken 
down and had made good his escape, she burst into gleeful 
laughter and laughed until she cried — at which gran'ma 
was sufficiently recovered to be indignant. 

" What do you mean ? " she asked the culprit sternly. 

" Please, gran'ma, it was so funny ! " 

" Everything is funny to you, it seems. That ? s what 
comes of association with a buffoon." 

"What's that?" 

" A buffoon is a person who sees nothing but fun in the 
misfortunes of others." 

' c I did n't know it was a misfortune, gran'ma. I was 
just thinking Mr. Mouse must be — be so surprised. He 



PROSE SELECTIONS 53 

must V thought he was in the bigges' trap in the 
world!" 

" Did you turn him loose in here? " 

" No 'm; I was keepin' him tight, an' he must 'a' got out." 

" He very certainly did. But what I find most fault with 
is, not the fright you gave me, but your disrespectful enjoy- 
ment of my distress. If I had behaved so at your age, I 
should have been punished terribly." 

" Could n't you ever laugh ?. " 

" I never laughed at my elders — that ? s sure." 

" Mr. Morton says God likes folks to laugh whenever they 
can." 

" And what, if you '11 tell me, does Mr. Morton know about 
God?" 

"Oh, a lot! He told me." 

" I don't doubt ! He '11 make an atheist of you before he 's 
through. I can see now that you discount your church and 
home teachings by what he says, and I '11 have no more of it 
— this trafficking with evil-doers. You'll keep away from 
that man in the future — mark my words ! Amelia may let 
you go to the devil, but I '11 not stand by and be a party to it. 
I 'm your keeper before God, whether your father made me 
such or not. You 're my son's child, and I '11 save your soul 
for you if I can." 

Felicity began to cry and Amelia told her to go upstairs. 

" I told you all this would come of letting her act in plays 
and spend her time with mummers," said Jane Fergus. 

"And I say that's all antediluvian bigotry," retorted 
Amelia, " and that it 's a great privilege for Felicity to have 
the companionship of a man like Mr. Morton." 

"It's a privilege she'll have to forego, then, as long as 
she 's under my roof." 

Encouraged by her rebellion much as a child is encouraged 
when he omits his prayers and meets no cataclysmic conse- 
quences, Amelia retreated in good order, her cheeks flushed 
and her mouth as determinedly set as her mother's. She 
made no reply to her mother's ultimatum; she wanted the 
night to think it over. But she was not cowed, and she 
knew it. 

Upstairs, Felicity was waiting to be "unbuttoned in the 
back " and to have her silken-fine, fair hair done up in rag 
curlers. 

When the bedtime preparations were completed and the 



54 SELECTED READINGS 

little night-gowned figure was outstretched in the small bed 
beside Amelia's own, the woman who was finding vent thug 
belatedly for her maternal passion, on a child not her own, 
sat down in the dark by the wide-open window, to look out 
into the summer night — and to make the great decision of 
her life. 

Life, in so far as it held that expectancy which makes life 
worth living, was over for her. For herself she could enter- 
tain no more eagerness, dream no more dreams — could an- 
ticipate only release. And that, before she had lived at all ! 
No, no. It must not be ! God never mocked one so. He had 
given her this child, this wonderful child, to live in; they 
would realize together, she and Felicity — 

It was midnight when she crept to bed to finish a restless, 
night. 

Recalled to that pitiless knowledge of her situation which 
she had mercifully forgotten for awhile in sleep, Amelia sat 
up, conscious of keen regret that it was day so soon. 

Felicity backed up to have her little petticoats buttoned, 
and Amelia, when she had done this, took the child by the 
shoulders and wheeled her around, facing her ; looking deep 
into the brown eyes as if searching for an answer in their 
yelvety depths, she asked: 

" Felicity, would you like to be an actress ? " 

" How could I ? Pmso little/' 

" They have little girls, sometimes. Mr. Morton has little 
girls in his plays. I think maybe if we ask him he '11 take 
you to play with him right now, and then when you 're grown 
up you might be celebrated like he is." 

"What is celerbated?" 

"It's being famous, well known — having ever and ever 
so many people like you, and when you play they go to see 
you and applaud, and you make lots of money and travel all 
over the world, and everywhere you go people know about you 
and try to do lovely things for you, and you meet other cele- 
brated people — kings and queens, sometimes — and great 
writers and painters and musicians; and everybody envies 
you and wishes they were in your place, instead of feeling 
sorry for you because you've never called your soul your 
own." 

" I 'd like that. I 'd like it fine ! But gran'ma ! She 
would n't let us." 

" No," agreed Amelia, soberly, " she would n't. But would 



PROSE SELECTIONS 55 

you do it anyway ? I mean would you want to ? If gran'ma 
would n't let you, but I would, would you go ? " 

"What would gran'ma do?" 

" I don't know, turn us out, I suppose — certainly refuse 
to speak to us for a long, long time." 

"I would n't like that." 

" Neither would I, but if you want to do great things you 
have to do hard things first." 

" Would gran'ma be mad for keeps ? " 

" I don't know ; she might, I can't tell." 

" Would n't it be wicked to make her that mad ? " 

" If you always ask yourself what your gran'ma will think, 
every time you want to do anything, you'll never get any- 
thing done ! That 's what I did, and there was never a thing 
I wanted to do that I did n't give it up because she 'd be mad 
if I did it. Now, you sha'n't begin that way. Do you under- 
stand? You sha'n't do it. Give me your hand and come to 
breakfast ; there 's the bell." And hand in hand the rebels 
descended the stairs and entered the dining-room. 

Jane Fergus was sitting at a window in the dining-room, 
reading her morning paper. 

Amelia, holding Felicity by the hand, stood before her 
mother, a mixture of fear and defiance in her attitude. 

" Mother, I have something very — very important to tell 
you." 

A curious ring in Amelia's voice made Jane Fergus lay 
down her paper. 

"Well?" 

" I 'm sorry you feel the way you do about Mr. Morton, but 
he thinks Felicity has a talent for acting; he says its devel- 
opment should begin now. I know you won't approve, but 
I can't help it ; I 'm going to see if he will take her on the 
stage. If he does it will be a wonderful chance for her. I — 
she wants to go and I — I think we ought not to stand in her 
way." 

Jane Fergus ignored her daughter and fixed her searching 
gaze on Felicity. 

" Is this true ? Are you wanting to go ? " 

Felicity looked from the compressed mouth and keen eyes 
before her, to the compressed mouth and unflinching eyes 
above her. She wanted to cry, to fling her arms about 
her gran'ma's neck and say she would never be an act- 
ress — never! But something in Amelia's face restrained 



56 SELECTED READINGS 

her and she choked down the lump in her throat and 
answered : 

* Yes 'm." 

"This is your doing/' said Jane Fergus, turning to 
Amelia. " To satisfy your own wicked ambition you traffic 
this child's soul to the devil. I wash my hands of you. Her 
blood be upon your head ! " 

With this terrible pronouncement she took off her spec- 
tacles, folded them into their case, and left the room. 

There was no breakfast eaten in the Fergus household that 
morning. 

After two years on the stage Felicity had begun to lengthen 
out to that spindling awkwardness which promised well for 
the future but made her impossible for child parts. When 
this time came Phineas persuaded Amelia to put the child 
in a boarding school in western Massachusetts. 

To school Felicity went, while Amelia took a small house 
in Salem and acquired a cat, and sat down by her swept and 
lonely hearth to wait the passing of the years until Felicity 
should be with her again. 

The Hilldale School for Girls was in the Berkshires; it 
was in charge of the Reverend Henry Candee Tutwiler. 

Felicity was looked upon with no little suspicion when her 
application for entrance was filed. The stage was rank in the 
nostrils of the Reverend Tutwiler, and he feared, moreover, 
that a majority of his patrons would be incensed if their off- 
spring were brought in contact with a child of the theatre. 

Amelia was enraged, and Felicity would never have gone 
to the Hilldale School for Girls had not the Reverend Tut- 
wiler weakened when he heard of Felicity's strictly orthodox 
upbringing, and had not Amelia weakened when it was 
pointed out to her that girls' schools inspired by a large world- 
wisdom and presided over by a fine catholic spirit, were so 
scarce that if she insisted on such a one, Felicity bade fair 
to live and die uneducated. 

So, early in September, Amelia took her to Hilldale and 
left her. 

Every month she went to spend Saturday and Sunday with 
Felicity, but the intervals between seemed interminable ; they 
were great voids, marked only by Felicity's letters. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 57 

" Dear, darling, preshus Aunt Elie, I perfecly abbominate 
this place. You ought to see what they call appel sauce it is 
pieces of appel noting a round in swetish water. When any- 
thing is the matter with you Mrs. Tutwiler comes and says its 
nothing and tells how many things has been the matter with 
her and Mr. Tutwiler and how brave they allways were. Ive 
cried every night since you left me hear and Mrs. Tutwiler 
says when she was my age she cried becaus there was no 
school for her to go to. I don't see why she tells me such 
things becaus I don't beleave them. Can't you write them 
a letter for me not to learn arithmetick I don't see any sense 
in it. 

" Your darling child, 

Felicity Fergus." 

" P.S. — Mrs. Tutwiler says is Felicity all the name youve 
got. I 'm glad none of my name is Tutwiler." 

Gradually, however, the joys of companionship began to 
balance Mrs. Tutwiler and the " appel sauce." 

" Thear is a girl hear named Eosalie Beech she has seen me 
act. She is a very nice girl. Some of the girls seam awful 
stupid they know thear lessons but they never been any place. 
They think I 'm wonderfull becaus Ive been so many places. 
They havent read much either their is a big girl that never 
heard of Mary Queen of Scots she says she ain't had Scotch 
histry yet what do you think of that ? " Letter number three 
was superbly sarcastic. " It seams," this letter read, " that 
its kind of a crime to laugh hear. Im being kept in my room 
this whole lovely long Saturday becaus I laughed last night. 
You see Fridays we have a funny thing that 's called the ele- 
gunt deportmunt class we ware our best dresses and have a 
kind of play although Mr. and Mrs. Tutwiler do not aprove 
of plays. The kind of play we had was that Mr. Tutwiler 
was the president of U. S. and Mrs. Tutwiler was Mrs. Grant 
and the teachers was cabinut ladys and we had to go in and 
act like we was at the white House it was awfull funny. Mr. 
Tutwiler didnt do right at all he called me madam so grand 
at least I guess he thought it was grand and I told him when 
I was at the real white House the president Grant called me 
chicken. Mrs. Tutwiler was so funny I nearly died laughing 
and just for that I got sent to my room to stay till Sunday. 
I don't see how I can ever stay in a school whear its a crime 



58 SELECTED READINGS 

to laugh. When I go home 111 show you how they did and 
see if you dont think its awfull funny." 

Amelia sent this letter to Phineas, who laughed over it till 
he cried. He was to be in Philadelphia at the holiday time 
and he invited Amelia to bring Felicity and join him there. 

"Well, pardner," Phineas said to Felicity, "I guess we 
can make a comedienne out o' you, all right. You seem to 
have the stuff in you. But you 've a long, hard row to hoe if 
you 're going to develop it. 

"Now I'll tell you what I'll do: If you work hard at 
school until June and learn what you can — if you don't like 
their deportment, see if you can't learn to like the way they 
spell — I '11 take you to Europe in the summer. Come, now, 
what do you say ? Is it a bargain ? " 

It was, and they sealed it with a kiss. 

Clara E. Laughlin - . 

Abridged by Anna Morgan. 

A SOCIAL PROMOTER* 

COLONEL ABEL GINN mopped his brow and glared at 
nobody in particular and went on : 

" Here I am — a self-made man ; self-made and remod- 
elled as rapidly as was necessary to keep up with the times. 
I invent a ginger snap that never loses its freshness ; I 'm 
just as much a benefactor of humanity as if I wrote poetry 
or painted pictures or carved statues. I 'm an artist, all right 
enough, when you get to the truth of the matter. I didn't 
corner anything but my own common sense. I worked as 
hard as anybody ever did; hard enough to make up for the 
fact that I have n't time to waste looking up a string of an- 
cestors. I make my pile. I come here and buy a half -block 
right in the middle of the best district. I rip out the old 
buildings on that half-block and I put up a marble palace 
that would have made Julius Caesar howl with joy. And then 
my wife can't understand why we are n't taken into society. 
I can't, either." 

Leyburn smiled pleasantly. He had a way of always smil- 
ing at the right time. He always smiled with Ginn, never at 
him. 

" Now," said the Colonel, " what 's the best way to go about 
it?" 

* Published in Harper's Magazine, 1908. Copyright, Harper & Brothers. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 59 

" I believe the custom is to get some letters of introduction 
and become acquainted gradually/' Leyburn replied. 

" Tried all that/' Colonel Ginn said. " Had plenty of let- 
ters. Presented them. Not much force. Leyburn, you've 
been in society — hang it ! you 're in it yet if you want to be. 
There ought to be a short cut." 

" Some folks have broken in through eccentricities — but 
you are not eccentric. And, really, Colonel, the game is n't 
worth the candle." 

" I 've got plenty of candles. Say ! " He leaned across the 
table and smiled. " I 've got it. I '11 advertise." 

"Advertise?" 

" Sure. How did I make a success of Ginn's Ginger Snaps ? 
Advertising. You remember that long before you were on 
my pay-roll there was something doing that made people real- 
ize they could n't keep house without my ginger snaps ? " 

" I remember. That was great advertising. But ginger 
snaps and getting into society are two different propositions, 
Colonel." 

" Advertising is the same thing, no matter what you adver- 
tise. I '11 show them a few kinks they never dreamed of." 

Colonel Ginn took a sheet of paper, gnawed his cigar, and 
presently handed Leyburn the following, scrawled in the 
vigorous chirography of the man who made ginger snaps for 
the wide world : 

" Col. Abel Ginn, president of Ginn's Ginger Snap Cor- 
poration, has built the finest, most beautiful residence in the 
city. It occupies the sites of four famous old Colonial man- 
sions on Bent Street. It cost him four millions to put up 
and another million to decorate. The paintings and furni- 
ture can't be duplicated, or even imitated. Col. Ginn is going 
to have a housewarming in the form of a dinner dance next 
Wednesday night. The Biltneys, the Cross-Fillinghams, the 
Schoolers, and all the leaders of society will be invited. Col. 
Ginn will welcome them with open arms." 

Leyburn read it over twice, then looked up. 

" Get that in every paper to-morrow," said the Colonel. 

" But the society columns will not print — " 

" Who 's talking about society columns ? I want that set 
in thirty-two-point type across three columns and half a page 
deep. Same space we use for the ginger snaps." 

" Had n't you better give this a little more thought, 
Colonel?" 



60 SELECTED READINGS 

" If I think it over again I '11 do something worse." 

The advertisement created excitement. Some of the papers 
got out extras, and put the advertisement on the first page in 
spite of their rules. Eeporters came to interview the Colonel, 
but Leyburn warded them off. This was easy, because the 
Colonel did not come to his offices until late in the day. 

" Say, Leyburn," he began as soon as he came in, " you 
should have been at my house this morning. I got more crit- 
icism than the author of a play. Mrs. Ginn said I was 
making a laughing stock of us. I told her we were almost 
that normally, and it was up to us to choose what sort of 
laughing stock we would be." 

" Just so." 

" But the funniest part is Laura. Instead of being angry 
over it, she is half way between hurt and tickled. Takes after 
me. Don't care a rap for the society game either, but I be- 
lieve she agrees with me that now I 'm in for it I 'd best play 
the game out." 

" Another advertisement ? " asked Leyburn. 

"Not to-day. Never overplay advertising after you've 
made your impression. Wait for results." 

Colonel Ginn stopped at the door of his office and called 
back: 

"Get your invitation? I told Laura to send you one. 
Hope you can come. I 've got cigars and things in my room 
for you and me, if we want to get off by ourselves." 

It is as well to pass lightly over that housewarming. Col- 
onel Ginn said grimly, late in the evening, that this was the 
first time in his life advertising had not paid. He was about 
to say more to himself, when Leyburn was announced. 

" Hello, Leyburn ! Make yourself at home. You 've prac- 
tically got the whole house to yourself, if you don't count the 
servants and that gang of Hungarians sawing fiddles behind 
the palms. What do you think of this ? " 

" Beautiful. It 's the first time I 've seen it, you know." 

" I don't mean the house. I mean the party." 

" Well, you know, just now every one in society is terribly 
busy, and — " 

" And I 'm getting the busy signal." 

Colonel Ginn led the way to his wife and daughter. In- 
stead of the fat and florid dame and gawky girl Leyburn had 
feared to meet, he saw a tall, slender woman, with motherly 
blue eyes, and beside her a stately young woman of grace and 



PROSE SELECTIONS 61 

self-possession, perfectly gowned, and winsomely good- 
looking. He found it easy to talk with Laura. A few guests 
came, and their chat was interrupted, but one bantering 
speech of Laura's lingered in Leyburn's memory next day. It 
was: 

"You will enjoy the dinner to-night; we won't serve 
ginger snaps." 

And next morning he gasped when he saw this spread 
across three half-columns of the paper he bought on the way 
downtown : 

" Colonel Abel Ginn entertained an exclusive number of 
guests at his palatial marble residence on Bent Street last 
night. The Schoolers, the Cross-Fillinghams, the Milvanes, 
and others of the leaders of society were absent. They missed 
it. Colonel Ginn, who is president of the Ginn Ginger Snap 
Corporation, is planning a few more fetes and functions that 
are calculated to rattle the dry bones of arbitrary restrictions. 
It may be well to watch for his next announcement." 

" I sent that copy to the papers late last night," the Col- 
onel explained to Leyburn. " Only two of them printed it. 
The others said it was too late to receive advertisements." 

Leyburn breathed more freely after a week had passed 
with no further advertisement experiments by the Colonel. 
Once during that time he had called at the Ginn palace and 
had spent an hour with Laura. He carefully avoided mention 
of the advertising, as there were other subjects to discuss. 
When he rose to go she laughed : 

" When are you and papa going to print another invitation 
in the papers ? " 

"I — reaUy — I don't know." 

"Mr. Leyburn, if papa wants to go in for that sort of 
thing, I wish — " 

" I would discourage him ? Certainly, I — " 

" No, indeed. Help him all you can. I 've known him 
longer than you have, and I know that when he sets his head 
or his heart on anything he '11 get it, if he must fight day 
and night. Papa is all right. I've always believed in him 
— and I 'm going to keep right on." 

Naturally, Leyburn vowed unfailing allegiance to the 
Colonel. 

That is why he expressed approval of the next advertise- 
ment, which read : 

"Colonel Abel Ginn, inventor and purveyor of Ginn's 



62 SELECTED READINGS 

Ginger Snaps, who owns what is conceded to be the hand- 
somest home in the city, will once more throw open that 
palatial place to society. Next Wednesday night he will give 
a musicale. Nobbelik will play, and Nelbica and the three 
de Ruspkes will sing. In addition to these, Dumrich's entire 
orchestra will render a classic and popular programme. 
There will be a little supper. The menu comprises every 
meat, bird, fruit, fish, and vegetable that is out of season 
here. If anything has been overlooked that will gladden the 
eye, please the ear, or tempt the palate Colonel Ginn would 
like to know of it. Invitations have been sent to the Cross- 
Fillinghams, the Schoolers, the Biltneys, and all of the other 
three hundred and ninety-seven. Colonel Ginn does n't care 
a rap about getting into society. He is doing this be- 
cause a principle is involved. He does his part: the ques- 
tion is, Will society do its part? The affair will begin 
along about ten o'clock and will last until the guests are 
satisfied." 

" By ginger ! " the Colonel declared. " If I can make the 
Esquimau and the Hottentot believe he cannot live without 
my ginger snap, then I can make society believe life is a 
hollow mockery if it does n't know my house." 

This advertisement started the tidal wave of editorial and 
other comment. Colonel Ginn's picture was in demand in 
the newspaper offices. The text of the advertisement was 
cabled to Europe and it was alleged that it was commented 
upon by royalty and nobility. Nay, more. It was stated that 
kings and queens instructed their purveyors to send Ginn's 
ginger snaps to their palaces. When all the world shakes, 
society feels the quiver. 

Mrs. Cross-Fillingham cancelled her engagements for that 
evening and went in state to Ginn's, and society filed in her 
wake. It was a living society column that marched through 
the doors and clasped the hand of Colonel Abel Ginn. 

" We fetched 'em," Ginn whispered to Leyburn, in a cor- 
ner not far from the madding crowd. " Mrs. Cross-Filling- 
ham is here, hyphen and all, large as life and twice as natu- 
ral. The Biltneys, the Schoolers, the Perronbys — all of 'em 
are here." 

Leyburn looked dumbly over the crowd. Ginn was right. 
There was Mrs. Cross-Fillingham flicking a jewelled hand at 
him. Here and there others of his acquaintance nodded, or 
called jovially to him. He edged through. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 63 

" Well, Laurence Leyburn ! " chirped Mrs. Cross-Filling- 
ham. " Where ever have you been hiding ? And is n't this 
the dearest, most delightful little affair you ever knew? 
Fancy finding you on earth again! And, oh, Miss Ginn, I 
am so happy your dear, deliciously absurd papa has given us 
all this chance to know you." 

So it was chirp and chatter and chatter and chirp for the 
next hour, one after the other praising everything and every- 
body, and Colonel Ginn tossing back repartee as though, to 
quote Pudgy Futter, the wit of society, " he were full of his 
own ginger snaps." 

After that night Leyburn was discontented and preoccu- 
pied. The Ginns had been caught into the whirl and he found 
Laura not at home an astonishingly high percentage of the 
times he called. In the end he tore a leaf from her father's 
book. 

"I am going to advertise for something," he told her. 

" I wish you success," she smiled. 

" I 'm going to advertise for a wife." 

" How silly ! But then you have been a successful adver- 
tiser, have n't you ? " 

" I don't know." 

" Just what do you mean ? " 

" It begins to look as though, if I want to see you long 
enough to propose to you, I '11 have to announce it through 
the papers, because I never find you to — " 

" How absurd ! I 'm right here now. So propose, 
Laurence." 

At the end of that year Colonel Abel Ginn said to his new 
son-in-law : 

" Laurence, the sales of Ginn's ginger snaps have about 
doubled this past year. Advertising, done right, pays." 

" It does," quickly agreed Leyburn. 

Wilbur D. Nesbit. 



A TALE OF OLD MADRID* 

DOLORES had prepared no speech with which to appeal 
to the King, and she had not counted upon her own 
feeling toward him when she found herself in the room where 
Mendoza had been questioned, and heard the door close behind 

* From " In the Palace of the King," by F. Marion Crawford. Copyrighted by 
The Macmillan Company. 



64 SELECTED READINGS 

her by the chamberlain who had announced her coming. 
She stood still a moment, dazzled by the brilliant lights and 
the magnificent tapestries which covered the walls with glow- 
ing colors. Everywhere in the room there were rich objects 
that caught and reflected the light, things of gold and silver, 
of jade and lapis lazuli, in a sort of tasteless profusion that 
detracted from the beauty of each, and made Dolores feel 
that she had been suddenly transported out of her own ele- 
ment into another that was hard to breathe and in which it 
was bad to live. 

As she entered she saw the King in profile, seated in his 
great chair at some distance from the fire but looking at it 
steadily. He did not notice her presence at first. His secre- 
tary, Antonio Perez, sat at the table busily writing, and he 
only glanced at Dolores sideways when he heard the door 
close after her. She sank almost to the ground as she made 
the first court curtsey before advancing, and came forward 
into the light. 

She was very beautiful, as she stood waiting for him to 
speak and meeting his gaze fearlessly with a look of cold con- 
tempt in her white face, such as no living person had ever 
dared to turn to him, while the light of anger burned in her 
deep gray eyes. 

" Be seated, Dona Dolores. I am glad that you have come, 
for I have much to say to you." Dolores came forward un- 
willingly and sat down very erect, with her hands folded on 
her knees. 

" Dolores is pale, — bring a cordial, Perez, or a glass of old 
Oporto wine." 

" I thank Your Majesty. [Quickly.] I need nothing." 

" I will be your physician. I shall insist upon your taking 
the medicine I prescribe. Perez, you may go and take some 
rest. I will send for you when I need you." 

The secretary rose, bowed low, and left the room. The 
King waited till he saw it close before he spoke again. 

" I feel that we are united by a common calamity, my dear. 
I intend to take you under my most particular care and pro- 
tection from this very hour. I know why you come to me; 
you wish to intercede for your father." 

" I ask justice, not mercy, sire." 

" Your father shall have both, for they are compatible." 

" He needs no mercy, for he has done no harm. Your . 
Majesty knows that as well as I." 



PROSE SELECTIONS 65 

"If I knew that, my dear, your father would not be 
tinder arrest. I cannot guess what you know or do not 
know — " 

" I know the truth/' 

"I wish I did. But tell me what you think you know 
about this matter. You may help me sift it, and then I shall 
be the better able to help you. What do you know ? " 

(Speaking in a whisper.) "I was close behind the door 
Your Majesty wished to open. I heard every word; I heard 
your sword drawn and I heard Don John fall — and then it 
was some time before I heard my father's voice, taking the 
blame upon himself, lest it should be said that the King had 
murdered his own brother in his room, unarmed. Is that the 
truth or not? When you were both gone, I came in and I 
found him dead with a wound in his left breast, and he was 
unarmed, murdered without a chance for his life. There is 
blood upon my dress where it touched his — the blood of the 
man I loved, shed by you. Ah, he was right to call you 
coward, and he died for me, because you said things of me 
that no loving man would bear. He was right to call you 
coward — it was well said — it was the last word he spoke, 
and I shall not forget it. He had borne everything you 
heaped upon himself, your insults, your scorn of his mother, 
but he would not let you cast a slur upon my name, and if 
you had not killed him out of sheer cowardice, he would 
have struck you in the face. Then my father took the blame, 
to save you from the monstrous accusation, and that all 
might believe him guilty he told the lie that saved you before 
them all. Do I know the truth? Is one word of that not 
true ? Confess that it is true ! Can you not even find cour- 
age for that? You are not the King now, you are your 
brother's murderer, and the murderer of the man I loved, 
whose wife I should have been to-morrow. Look at me, and 
confess that I have told the truth. I am a Spanish woman, 
and I would not see my country branded before the world 
with the shame of your royal murders, and if you will con- 
fess and save my father, I will keep your secret, for my 
country's sake. But, if not — then you must either kill me 
here as you slew him, or by the God that made you, and the 
mother that bore you, I will tell all Spain what you are, 
and the man who loved Don John of Austria shall rise and 
take your blood for his blood, though it be blood royal ; and 
you shall die, as you killed, like the coward you are! Will 

5 



66 SELECTED READINGS 

3'ou not speak? Then find some weapon and kill me here 
before I go, for I shall not wait till you find many words." 

The King made no sound and Dolores moved toward the 
door. Her hand was almost on the door when the King 
raised himself by the arms of his chair and cried out to her 
in a frightened voice : 

" No, no ! Stay here — you must not go — what do you 
want me to say ? " 

" Say I have spoken the truth." 

"Yes, — it is true — I did it — for God's mercy do not 
betray me." 

" That is not all. That was for me, that I might hear 
the worst from your own lips. There is something more I 
want — my father's freedom and safety. I must have an 
order for his instant release. Let him come here at once as 
a free man." 

"That is impossible. He has confessed the deed before 
the whole court — he cannot possibly be set at liberty with- 
out a trial. You forget what you are asking." 

" I am not asking anything of Your Majesty ; I am dic- 
tating terms to my lovers murderer." 

" This is past bearing, girl ! You are out of your mind 
— I shall call servants to take you away to a place of safety. 
We shall see what you will do then. You shall not impose 
your insolence upon me any longer." 

" Call whom you will, you cannot save yourself. Don 
Ruy Gomez is on the other side of that door and there are 
chamberlains and guards there too. I shall have told them 
all the truth before your men can lay hands on me. If you 
will not write the order to release my father, I shall go out 
at once. In ten minutes there will be a revolution in the 
palace and to-morrow all Spain will be on fire to avenge 
your brother. Spain has not forgotten Don Carlos yet! 
There are those alive who saw you give Queen Isabel the 
draught that killed her — with your own hand. Are you 
mad enough to think that no one knows those things ; that 
your spies, who spy on others, do not spy on you; that you 
alone of all mankind can commit every crime with impunity ? 
Beware, Don Philip of Austria, King of Spain and half 
the world, lest a girl's voice be heard above yours, and a 
girl's hand loosen the foundation of your throne; lest all 
mankind rise up to-morrow and take your life for the lives 
you have destroyed ! Outside this door here, there are men 



PROSE SELECTIONS 67 

who guess the truth already, who hate you as they hate Satan, 
and who loved your brother as every living being loved him 
— except you. One moment more — order my father to be 
set free or I will open and speak. One moment ! You will 
not ? It is too late — you are lost ! " 

Her hand went out to open, but Philip was already on 
his feet, and with quick, clumsy steps, he reached the writ- 
ing-table, seized the pen Perez had thrown down, and began 
to scrawl words rapidly in his great angular handwriting. 
He threw sand upon it to dry the ink, and then poured the 
grains back into the silver sand-box, glanced at the paper, 
and held it out to Dolores without a word. His other hand 
slipped along the table to a silver bell, used for calling his 
private attendants, but the girl saw the movement and in- 
stinctively suspected his treachery. 

" If you ring that bell I will open. I must have the paper 
here, where I am safe, and I must read it myself before I 
shall be satisfied." 

She took the document from his hand, keeping her eyes 
on his. For some seconds they faced each other in silence. 
At last she allowed her eyes to glance at the paper. It was 
an order stating that Don Diego Mendoza was to be set at 
liberty instantly and unconditionally. 

" I humbly thank Your Majesty, and take my leave," she 
said, throwing the door wide open and curtseying low. 

A chamberlain who had seen the door move on its hinges 
stepped in to shut it, for it opened inward. The King beck- 
oned him in and closed it, but before it was quite shut, he 
heard Dolores' voice. 

"Don Euy Gomez, this is an order to set my father at 
liberty unconditionally and at once. Tell him from me 
that he is safe. You have been very kind to me, Prince ; let 
me thank you with all my heart, now, for we may not meet 
hereafter. You will not see me at this court again." 

F. Marion Crawford. 

Adapted by Anna Morgan. 

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI* 

ONE dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And 
sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved, one 
and two at a time, by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable 

* By permission of the McClure Co. Copyrighted, 1906, by McClure, Phillips & Co. 



68 SELECTED READINGS 

man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent 
imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. 
Three times Delia counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven 
cents. And the next day would be Christmas. 

There was clearly nothing to do but to flop down on the 
shabby little couch and howl. So Delia did it. Which insti- 
gates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, 
and smiles, with sniffles predominating. 

When the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding 
from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. 
A furnished flat at $8.00 per week. It did not exactly beggar 
description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout 
for the mendicancy squad. 

In the vestibule below was a letter box into which no 
letter would go, and an electric button from which no 
mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining there- 
unto was a card bearing the name " Mr. James Dillingham 
Young." 

The " Dillingham " had been flung to the breeze during 
a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being 
paid thirty dollars per week. Now, when income had shrunk 
to twenty dollars, the letters of " Dillingham " looked blur- 
red, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to 
a modest and unassuming " D." But whenever Mr. James 
Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he 
was called " Jim " and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dil- 
lingham Young, already introduced to you as Delia. Which 
is all very good. 

Delia finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the 
powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully 
at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray back yard. To- 
morrow would be Christmas day, and she had only $1.87 
with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every 
penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dol- 
lars a week does n't go far. Expenses had been greater than 
she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy 
a present for Jim ! Her Jim ! Many a happy hour she had 
spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine 
and rare and sterling — something just a little bit near to 
being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim. 

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. 
Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an eight-dollar flat. A 
very thin and agile person may, by observing his reflection in 



PROSE SELECTIONS 69 

a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly ac- 
curate conception of his looks. Delia, being slender, had 
mastered the art. 

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before 
the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face 
had lost its color within twenty seconds. Eapidly she pulled 
down her hair and let it fall to its full length. 

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham 
Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was 
Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grand- 
father's. The other was Delia's hair. Had the Queen of 
Sheba lived in the flat across the air shaft, Delia would have 
let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to 
depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solo- 
mon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the 
basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time 
he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy. 

So now Delia's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and 
shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below 
her knees and made itself almost a garment for her. And 
then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she 
faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two 
splashed on the worn red carpet. 

On went her old brown jacket; on. went her old brown 
hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle 
still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the 
stairs to the street. 

Where she stopped the sign read : " Mme. Sof ronie. Hair 
Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Delia ran, and col- 
lected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, 
hardly looked the " Sofronie." 

" Will you buy my hair ? " asked Delia. 

" I buy hair," said Madame. " Take your hat off and 
let 's have a sight at the looks of it." 

Down rippled the brown cascade. 

" Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a 
practised hand. 

" Give it to me quick," said Delia. 

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. 
Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores 
for Jim's present. 

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim 
and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the 



70 SELECTED READINGS 

stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a 
platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly 
proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by mere- 
tricious ornamentation — as all good things should do. It 
was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she 
knew it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and 
value — the description applied to both. Twenty-one dol- 
lars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with 
the eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch Jim 
might be properly anxious about the time in any company. 
Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly 
on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of 
a chain. 

When Delia reached home her intoxication gave way a 
little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons 
and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages 
made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tre- 
mendous task, dear friends — a mammoth task. 

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, 
close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant 
schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, 
carefully, and critically. 

" If Jim does n't kill me," she said to herself, " before he 
takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney 
Island chorus girl. But what could I do — oh ! What could 
I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents ? " 

At seven o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan 
was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops. 

Jim was never late. Delia doubled the fob chain in her 
hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that 
he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair 
away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just 
a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers 
about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: 
" Please God, make him think I am still pretty." 

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He 
looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only 
twenty-two — and to be burdened with a family ! He needed 
a new overcoat and he was without gloves. 

Jim stepped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at 
the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Delia, and 
there was an expression in them which she could not read, 
and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor 



PROSE SELECTIONS 71 

disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she 
had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with 
that peculiar expression on his face. 

Delia wriggled off the table and went for him. 

" Jim, darling," she cried, " don't look at me that way. 
I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't live 
through Christmas without giving you a present. It '11 grow 
out again — you won't mind, will you ? I just had to do it. 
My hair grows awfully fast. Say c Merry Christmas ! ' Jim, 
and let 's be happy. You don't know what a nice — what a 
beautiful, nice gift I 've got for you." 

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as 
if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the 
hardest mental labor. 

" Cut it off and sold it," said Delia. " Don't you like me 
just as well, anyhow ? I 'm me without my hair, ain't I ? " 

Jim looked about the room curiously. 

" You say your hair is gone ? " he said, with an air 
almost of idiocy. 

"You needn't look for it," said Delia. "It's sold, I 
tell you — sold and gone, too. It 's Christmas eve, boy. Be 
good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my 
head were numbered," she went on with a sudden serious 
sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. 
Shall I put the chops on, Jim ? " 

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He en- 
folded his Delia. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet 
scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. 
Eight dollars a week or a million a year — what is the 
difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the 
wrong answer. The Magi brought valuable gifts, but that 
was not among them. This dark assertion will be illumin- 
ated later on. 

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw 
it upon the table. 

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. 
I don't think there 's anything in the way of a hair cut or 
a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any 
less. But if you will unwrap that package you may see why 
you had me going a while at first." 

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. 
And then an ecstatic scream of joy ; and then, alas ! a quick 
feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating 



72 SELECTED READINGS 

the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of 
the lord of the flat. 

For there lay The Combs — the set of combs, side and back, 
that Delia had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. 
Beautiful combs, pure tortoise-shell, with jewelled rims — 
just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They 
were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply 
craved and j^earned over them without the least hope of pos- 
session. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should 
have adorned the coveted adornments were gone. But she 
hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look 
up with dim eyes and smile and say : " My hair grows so fast, 
JIM!" 

And then Delia leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, 
"Oh, oh!" 

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it 
out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious 
metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and 
ardent spirit. 

" Is n't it a dandy, Jim ? I hunted all over town to find 
it. You will have to look at the time a hundred times a 
day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks 
on it." 

Instead of obeying Jim tumbled down on the couch and 
put his hands under the back of his head and smiled. 

" Dell," said he, " let 's put our Christmas presents away 
and keep 'em awhile. They 're too nice to use just at present. 
I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs." 

0. Henry. 

Abridged by Anna Morgan. 

THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL* 

FOR two years it had been notorious that Sam'l Dickie 
was thinking of courting T'nowhead's Bell, and that 
if Little Sanders Elshioner went in for her, he might prove 
a formidable rival. 

It was Saturday evening — the night in the week when 
Auld Licht young men fell in love — that Sam'l Dickie came 
to the door of a farmhouse. The farmer's wife, Lisbeth, 
came to the door. 
" Oh, Sam'l." 

* By permission of Lovell, Coryell & Co. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 73 

Sam'l shook hands with Lisbeth, said "Ay, Bell," to his 
sweetheart, " Ay, T'nowhead," to the farmer, and " It 's 
yersel, Sanders," to his rival. 

" Sit in to the fire, Sam'l," said the farmer. 

" Na, na, I 'm to bide nae time." Sam'l felt a little anxious. 
Sanders Elshioner, who had one leg shorter than the other, 
but looked well when sitting, seemed suspiciously at home. 
Sam'l did not like it. It was impossible to say which of her 
lovers Bell preferred, but undoubtedly, according to custom, 
she would accept the first one who proposed. 

"Ye '11 bide a wee, an' hae something to eat?" Lisbeth 
asked Sam'l. 

" No, I thank ye." 

"Ye '11 better." 

" I dinna think it." 

" Hoots aye ; what J s to hender ye ? " 

a Weel, since ye 're sae pressin', I '11 bide." 

No one asked Sanders to stay. Bell could not, for she was 
but the servant, and T'nowhead knew that the kick his wife 
had given him meant that he was not to do so either. San- 
ders whistled to show that he was not uncomfortable. 

" Ay, then, I '11 be stappin' ower the brae." 

He did not go, however. 

At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done. The 
potatoes were burning, and T'nowhead had an invitation on 
his tongue. 

"Yes, I'll hae to be movin'," said Sanders, hopelessly, 
for the fifth time. 

"Guid-nicht to ye, then, Sanders," said Lisbeth. "Gie 
the door a fling-to, ahent ye." 

Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together. 
He looked boldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully. 
Sam'l saw with misgivings that there was something in it 
which was not a handkerchief. It was a paper bag glitter- 
ing with gold braid, and contained such an assortment of 
sweets as lads bought for their lasses. 

" Hae, Bell," said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in an 
offhand way as if it were but a trifle. Nevertheless he was 
a little excited, for he went off without saying good-night. 

" Sit in by to the table, Sam'l," said Lisbeth, trying to look 
as if things were as they had been before. 

Sam'l hurried out of the house. 

" What do ye think ? " asked Lisbeth. 



74 SELECTED READINGS 

« I d'na kin/' faltered Bell. 

In ten minutes Sam'l was back. " Bell, hae ! " he cried, 
handing his sweetheart a tinsel bag twice the size of San- 
ders's gift. 

" I thank ye, Sam'l," said Bell, feeling an unwonted ela- 
tion as she gazed at the two paper bags in her lap. 

" I widna advise ye to eat thae ither anes, Bell — they 're 
second quality," said Sam'l. 

" How do ye kin ? " 

" I speired i' the shop." 

The courting of T'nowhead's Bell reached its crisis one 
Sabbath about a month after the events just related. It was 
a fateful Sabbath for T'nowhead's Bell, who had remained 
home from church. 

The first half of the service had been gone through with- 
out anything remarkable happening. It was at the end of 
the psalm which preceded the sermon that Sanders Elshioner, 
who sat near the door, lowered his head until it was no higher 
than the pews, and slipped out of the church. In their 
eagerness to hear the sermon, many of the congregation did 
not notice him, but Sam'l, from his seat in the gallery, saw 
Sanders disappear, and with the true lover's instinct, un- 
derstood it all. Bell was alone at the farm. Sanders, doubt- 
less, was off to propose, and he, Sam'l, was left behind. 

The suspense was terrible. Sam'l and Sanders had both 
known all along that Bell would take the first of the two 
who asked her. In ten minutes Sanders would be at T'now- 
head's ; in an hour all would be over. Sam'l rose to his feet 
in a daze. His mother pulled him down by the coat-tail, and 
his father shook him, thinking he was walking in his sleep. 
He tottered past them, however, hurried up the aisle and was 
gone. 

A number of the congregation realized that day the ad- 
vantage of sitting in the loft. What was a mystery to those 
downstairs was revealed to them. From the gallery windows 
they had a fine open view to the south; and as Sam'l took 
a short cut through a steep ascent, to T'nowhead's, he was 
never out of their line of vision. Sanders was not to be 
seen, but they guessed rightly the reason why. Thinking 
he had ample time, he had gone round by the main road. 
Sam'l's design was to forestall him by taking the shorter 
path. 

It was a race for a wife, and several onlookers in the gallery 



PROSE SELECTIONS 75 

braved the minister's displeasure to see who won. Those 
who favored Sam'l's suit exultingly saw him leap the stream, 
while the friends of Sanders fixed their eyes on the top of 
the common where it ran into the road. The chances were 
in Sanders's favor. Had it been any other day in the week 
Sam'l might have run. So some of the congregation in the 
gallery were thinking, when suddenly they saw him take 
to his heels. The rivals had seen each other. It was now a 
hot race. More than one person in the gallery almost rose 
to their feet in their excitement. Sam'l had it. No, San- 
ders was in front. Then the two figures disappeared from 
view. 

"Lord preserve's! Are ye no at the kirk?" cried Bell, 
nearly dropping the baby as Sam'l broke into the room. 

" Bell ! " cried Sam'l, " will ye hae 's, Bell? " 

"Ay," answered Bell. 

" Bring 's a drink o' water, Bell." But Bell thought the 
occasion required milk, and there was none in the kitchen. 
She went out to the byre, and saw Sanders Elshioner sitting 
gloomily on the pigsty. 

" Weel, Bell," said Sanders. 

" I thocht ye 'd been at the kirk, Sanders," said Bell. 

"Has Sam'l speired ye, Bell?" 

" Ay." 

Sanders gave the pig a vicious poke as Bell went back 
to the kitchen. Sanders remained at the pigsty until 
Sam'l left the farm, when he joined him at the top of the 
brae. 

" It 's yersel, Sanders," said Sam'l. 

" It is so, Sam'l." 

" Very cauld." 

" Blawy." 

After a pause — 

" Sam'l." 

" Ay." 

" I 'm hearin' ye 're to be mairit." 

a Ay." 

" Weel, Sam'l, she 's a snod bit lassie." 

" Thank ye." 

" I had ance a kin' o' notion o' Bell mysel^ 

"Ye had?" 

"Yes, Sam'l; but I thocht better o't." 

"Hoo d'ye mean?" 



76 SELECTED READINGS 

"Weel, Sam'l, mairitcli is a terrible responsibeelity. An' 
no the thing to tak up withoot conseederation." 

" But it 's a blessed and honorable state, Sanders ; ye 've 
heard the minister on ? t." 

" They say 'at the minister doesna get on sair wi' the wife 
himsel." 

" So they do." 

" I 've been telt," Sanders went on, " 'at gin ye can get the 
upper han' o' the wife for a while at first, there 's the mair 
chance o' a harmonious exeestence." 

" Bell 's no the lassie to thwart her man. D' ye think she 
is, Sanders?" 

"Weel, Sam'l, I'd'na want to fluster ye, but she's been 
ower lang wi' Lisbeth Fargus no to hae learnt her ways. An 
a'body kins what a life T'nowhead has wi' her." 

" Guid-sake, Sanders, hoo did ye no speak o' this afore ? " 

" I thocht ye kent o' t, Sam'l." 
• " But, Sanders, ye was on yer wy to speir her yersel." 

" I was, Sam'l, and I canna but be thankfu' ye was ower 
quick, for 's." 

" Gin 't hadna been you, I wid never hae thocht o' t." 

" I 'm sayin' naetlnng agin Bell ; but man, Sam'l, a body 
should be mair deleeberate in a thing o' the kind." 

" It was michty hurried." 

" It 's a serious thing to speir a lassie." 

« It 's an awfu' thing." 

u But we '11 hope for the best." 

"Sam'l!" 

"Ay, Sanders." 

" Did ye — did ye kiss her, Sam'l ? " 

a Na." 

"Hoo?" 

" There was varra little time, Sanders." 

" Half an 'oor." 

" Was there ? Man, Sanders, to tell ye the truth, I never 
thocht o' t." 

Meeting Sanders some weeks later Sam'l said to him, " If 
I had only kent her langer ! " 

" It wid hae been safer." 

" Ye hae kent her langer than me," said Sam'l. 

" Yes, but there 's nae gettin' at the heart o' women. Man, 
Sam'l, they 're desperate cunnin'." 

" I 'm dootin' t ; I 'm sair dootin' t." 



PROSE SELECTIONS 77 

" It '11 be a warnin' to ye, Sam'l, no to be in sic a hurry i' 
the futur." 

" But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin oot o' 
the kirk that awfu' day was at the bottom o 'd a'." 

" It was so/' 

" An' ye used to be fond o' Bell, Sanders." 

« I dinna deny 't." 

" Sanders, laddie, I aye thocht it was you she likit." 

" I had some sic idea mysel." 

" Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weel suited 
to ane anither as you an' Bell." 

"Canna ye, Sam'l?" 

" She wid mak ye a guid wife, Sanders. I hae studied her 
weel, and she's a thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders, 
there 's no the like o' her. Mony a time, Sanders, I hae said 
to mysel, ' There 's a lass ony man micht be prood to tak.' 
A'body says the same, Sanders. There 's nae risk ava, man : 
nane to speak o'. Tak her, laddie, tak her, Sanders ; it 's -a 
grand chance, Sanders. She's yours for the speirin'. I'll 
gie her up, Sanders." 

"Will ye, though?" 

"What d'ye think?" 

" If ye wid rayther." 

" There 's my han' on 't. Bless ye, Sanders ; ye 've been 
a true frien' to me." 

So, as soon as it could be done, Sanders Elshioner took to 
wife T'nowhead's Bell, and Sam'l Dickie danced at the 
wedding. 

J. M. Baerie. 

Adapted by Anna Morgan. 

THE GATE OF THE HUNDRED SORROWS* 

THIS is no work of mine. My friend, Gabral Misquitta, 
the half-caste, spoke it all, between moonset and morn- 
ing, six weeks before he died; and I took it down from his 
mouth as he answered my questions. So : 

It lies between the Coppersmith's Gully and the pipe-stem 
sellers' quarter, within a hundred yards of the Mosque of 
Wazir Khan. I don't mind telling any one this much, but I 
defy him to find the gate, however well he may think he knows 
the city. You might even go through the very gully it stands 

* By permission of H. M. Caldwell Co. 



78 SELECTED READINGS 

in a hundred times and be none the wiser. We used to call 
the gully the Gully of the Black Smoke. A loaded donkey 
could n't pass between the walls, and at one point just before 
you reach the gate a bulged house front makes people go 
along all sideways. It isn't really a gate though, it's a 
house. Old Fung-Tching had it first five years ago. 
He was a bootmaker in Calcutta. They say that he mur- 
dered his wife there when he was drunk. That was why he 
dropped Bazaar Eum and took to the Black Smoke instead. 
Later on he came up north and opened a gate as a house 
where you could get your smoke in peace and quiet. Mind 
you, it was a respectable opium house and not one of those 
stifling, sweltering chandoo-khanas that you find all over the 
city. No, the old man knew his business thoroughly, and he 
was most clean for a Chinaman. 

Fung-Tching never told us why he called the place The 
Gate of the Hundred Sorrows. We used to find that out for 
ourselves. Nothing grows on you so much if you are white as 
the black smoke. A yellow man is made different. Opium 
does n't tell on him scarcely at all, but white and black 
suffer a good deal. Of course there are some people that the 
smoke doesn't touch any more than tobacco would at first. 
They just doze a bit, as one would fall asleep naturally, and 
next morning they are almost fit for work. Now, I was one 
of that sort when I began, but I 've been at it for five years 
pretty steadily, and it's different now. There was an old 
aunt of mine down Agra way, and she left me a little at her 
death, about sixty rupees a month secured. Sixty is n't 
much. I can recollect the time, it seems hundreds and hun- 
dreds of years ago, that I was getting my three hundred a 
month and pickings, when I was working on a big timber 
contract in Calcutta. 

There was ten of us met at the Gate when the place was 
first opened. Now there is only me, the Chinaman, and the 
half-caste woman that we call the Memsahib. The Memsahib 
looks very old now. I think she was a young woman when 
the Gate was opened, but we are all old for the matter of 
that, hundreds and hundreds of years old. It is very hard to 
keep count of time in the Gate, and besides, time doesn't 
matter to me. Now I am quite happy, not drunk happy, you 
know, but always quiet and soothed and contented. 

How did I take to it ? It began at Calcutta. I used to try 
it in my own house, just to see what it was like. Finally, I 



PROSE SELECTIONS 79 

found myself here and got to know Fung-Tching. He told 
me of the Gate, and I used to go there, and somehow I have 
never got away from it since. Mind you, though, the Gate 
was a respectable place in Fung-Telling's time. We always 
had a mat apiece with a wadded woollen head-piece all cov- 
ered with black and red dragons and things, just like the 
coffin in the corner. At the end of one's third pipe the 
dragons used to move about and fight. I 've watched them 
many and many a night through. I used to regulate my 
smoke that way; and now it takes a dozen pipes to make 
them stir. Besides they 're all torn and dirty like the mats, 
and old Fung-Tching is dead. He died a couple of years ago 
and gave me the pipe I always use now, a silver one, and I 've 
got to clean it out now, and that 's a great deal of trouble ; 
but I smoke it for the old man's sake. He must have made a 
good thing out of me, but he always gave me clean mats and 
a pillow and the best stuff you could get anywhere. 

When he died his nephew Tsin-Ling took up the Gate, 
and he called it The Temple of the Three Possessions ; but 
we old ones speak of it as The Hundred Sorrows, all the same. 
The nephew does things very shabbily. I found burned bran 
in my pipe over and over again. The old man would have 
died if that had happened in his time. 

I don't know why I don't leave the place and smoke quietly 
in a little room of my own in the Bazaar. Most like Tsin- 
Ling would kill me if I went away. He draws my sixty 
rupees now, and besides, it 's so much trouble, and I 've grown 
to be very fond of the Gate. It 's not what it was in the old 
man's time, but I could n't leave it. 

One of these days I hope I shall die in the Gate. The 
Persian and the Madras man are terribly shaky now. 
They've got a boy to light their pipes for them. I always 
do that myself. Most like I shall see them carried out before 
me. I don't think I shall ever outlive the Memsahib or 
Tsin-Ling. Women last longer than men at the black smoke, 
and Tsin-Ling has a deal of the old man's blood in him. The 
Bazaar woman knew when she was going, two days before 
her time, and she died on a clean mat with a nicely wadded 
pillow; and the old man hung up her pipe just above the 
joss. He was always fond of her, I fancy, but he took her 
bangles just the same. 

I should like to die like the Bazaar woman on a clean, cool 
mat with a pipe of good stuff between my lips. When I feel 



80 SELECTED READINGS 

I 'm going I shall ask Tsin-Ling for them, and he can draw 
my sixty rupees a month fresh and fresh as long as he pleases. 
Then I shall lie back quiet and comfortable and watch the 
black and red dragons have their last big fight together, and 
then. . . . 

Well, it does n't matter ; nothing matters much to me — 
only I wish Tsin-Ling wouldn't put bran into the black 
smoke. 

Eudyaed Kipling. 

Abridged by Anna Morgan. 

HOW MUCH LAND DOES A MAN REQUIRE? 

AN" elder sister from town visited a younger sister in the 
. country. The elder was married to a merchant, the 
younger to a simple peasant. The elder fell to boasting of 
her town life; how she lived and moved about in ease and 
comfort ; how nicely she dressed her children ; what delicious 
things she had to eat and drink, and how pleasant it was to 
be always driving about or going to the theatre. The younger 
sister was vexed. She began to run down town life and exalt 
country life. " I would not change my condition for yours," 
said she. " I grant you that our life is dull, but it is without 
care. You live more finely, no doubt; but if trade brings 
you in much, it may also ruin you in an instant. The prov- 
erb says, ' Gain has a big brother called Loss.' To-day you 
are pretty rich, to-morrow you may be begging your bread 
beneath my windows. Our rustic life is surer: we are not 
rich, perhaps, but we always have enough." 

" Enough, indeed," retorted the elder ; " yes, and you share 
it with oxen and swine. You 've neither elegance nor com- 
fort. Let your husband work as he may, you '11 live and die 
muckworms, and your children after you." 

" Yes, so 't is," returned the younger ; " and we know what 
we have to expect. But set against it that our life is as solid 
as the rock beneath our feet. We truckle to none. We fear 
nobody. But all you townsfolk are beset with stumbling- 
blocks. To-day 't is well, but to-morrow the unclean spirit 
pokes his head in and tempts your husband with cards, or 
wine, or theft, and — your wealth is all dust and ashes. You 
can't deny it." 

Pakhom, the younger sister's husband, was listening to 
the women's prattle. " Quite true," said he to himself, 



PROSE SELECTIONS 81 

" perfectly true. As our brother (i. e., himself) has been turn- 
ing over his mother earth from childhood, nonsense has had 
no time to get into his head. The mischief of it is there 's so 
little land to be had. Let me only have land enough and 
I '11 fear nobody ; no, not even the Devil himself." 

And the Devil, who had all the time been sitting behind 
the stove, heard everything. He hugged himself with joy 
that the peasant's wife should have set her husband off brag- 
ging — bragging that if he only had land enough, the Devil 
himself should not hurt him. " Softly, softly," thought he. 
" We '11 be even with you yet. I '11 give you land enough, 
and both you and your land shall be mine." 

One day Pakhom was sitting at home, when a strange 
peasant, who was passing by, looked in. 

" Pray say, friend, whither is God leading you ? " 

The peasant replied that he came from the south, from the 
lower Volga, and that plenty of work was to be had there. 
One peasant went there quite poor, with nothing but his two 
hands, in fact, and got an allotment of fifty acres. Last year 
he made a thousand roubles (a hundred pounds) from a 
single wheat crop. 

Pakhom's heart burned within him. Why should he grow 
poorer the harder he worked, when he might live so well 
elsewhere ? 

" I '11 sell my farm and land, and settle down there with the 
money, and farm on a big scale." 

So when the summer time came he arose and went. He 
sailed down the Volga by the steamer as far as Samara. 
Everything was exactly as he had been told. The peasants 
lived sumptuously there. He investigated everything, re- 
turned home in the Autumn, and sold all he had. 

They received Pakhom into the community, allotted him 
land for five souls, with right of pasturage on the communal 
lands. Pakhom built him a house and bought much cattle. 
His own lot of land was double as much as before, and fat 
land it was. Thus he lived for five years. He hired more 
* land and sowed more and more wheat. The years rolled by 
prosperously ; the wheat crops were good ; he began to amass 
money. Life would indeed have been worth living but from 
the annoyance which Pakhom felt in hiring land from people 
every year and losing time by going in search of it. One day 
a merchant on his way home stopped at Pakhom's farm to 

6 



82 SELECTED READINGS 

fodder his horses. The merchant said that he had come all 
the way from the land of the Bashkirs. There, he said, he 
had bought five thousand acres of land from the Bashkirs, 
and the whole lot only came to one thousand roubles. Pak- 
hom began asking questions. The merchant told him all 
about it. 

" You have only to cajole their chiefs," said he, " give them 
a hundred roubles' worth of dressing-gowns and carpets, and 
a chest of tea, and drink a little wine with those who like it, 
and get land at twenty kopecks (twelve cents) an acre." 

" The land there," continued the merchant, " is so vast that 
if you took a whole year to go over it you would not do it, 
and it all belongs to the Bashkirs. They are a simple people, 
just like sheep. Possibly you may even get some of the land 
for nothing." 

"Well," thought Pakhom, "why should I buy fifty acres 
of land with my thousand roubles, and saddle myself with 
debt besides, when there with the same money I could do what 
Hiked?" 

As soon as the merchant had gone, Pakhom got ready for 
his journey. 

He left his wife at home but took a laborer with him, and 
set out. First they went to town; bought some chests of tea, 
gifts, wine, everything that the merchant had said. On the 
seventh day they came to the land of the nomadic Bashkirs. 
Everything there was exactly as the merchant had said. The 
instant they saw Pakhom they came out of their kibitki and 
surrounded the stranger. An interpreter chanced to be there. 
Pakhom told him he had come for land. 

" They bid me tell you," said the interpreter, " that they ? ve 
taken a fancy to you, and ? t is their custom to grant the de- 
sires of their guests, and give back gifts for gifts. You have 
given us gifts, speak now ! what thing of ours does your heart 
desire, that we may give it to you ? " 

"What I like best of all," said Pakhom, "is your land. 
I have never seen the like of it before." 

The interpreter interpreted. The Bashkirs talked away 
among themselves. Pakhom did not understand what they 
were saying, but he could see that they were vastly amused at 
something, for they laughed heartily. 

"They bid me tell you," said the interpreter, "that for 
your goodness to them they will be glad to give you as much 
land as you desire." 



I 



PROSE SELECTIONS 83 

w And the price ? " said Pakhom. 

" We have only one price here, one thousand roubles a day. 
We sell by the day — that is to say, so much land as you 
are able to compass in a day, so much is your measure; 
the price per day is one thousand roubles. But there's 
one condition. If you don't come back within the day to the 
point whence you started, you forfeit your money and get 
nothing." 

" But how," asked Pakhom again ; "do you mean to say 
you '11 measure me all I go over ? " 

" You are free to make your own circuit, but you must 
come back to the place from whence you started before the 
setting of the sun. Whatsoever you compass within that time 
the same shall be yours." 

Pakhom consented and they agreed to set out early the next 
morning. Then they made a bed for Pakhom of soft cush- 
ions, and the Bashkirs left him. 

Pakhom lay on his cushions but he could not sleep. He 
kept thinking of the land. " Here," said he, " I am indeed 
in luck's way. I am about to drop into a huge domain, for in 
a day I can make a circuit of fifty miles easily. Now, in fifty 
miles there are at least ten thousand acres. I shall be inde- 
pendent of all the world." 

Pakhom did not sleep a wink the whole night. It was only 
just before dawn that he dozed off. When he woke his first 
thought was, "I must wake up the people, the time has 
come." 

When Pakhom with his laborer reached the steppe the red 
dawn was already visible. They came to a little mound, dis- 
mounted, and the Bashkirs went up to the top of it and stood 
there in a group. The chief came to Pakhom, and pointed 
with his hand. 

"Behold," said he, "as far as your eye can reach, all is 
ours. Choose what you will ! " The chief doffed his fox-skin 
hat, and set it on top of the mound. 

" That," said he, " will be the goal, put your money in it. 
Your laborer will stand here. This is your starting point — 
hither also will you return. Whatsoever you compass shall be 
yours." 

Pakhom took out his money, placed it in the cap, doffed his 
long cloak, girded up his loins, tightened his belt, thrust a bit 
of bread into his bosom, fastened a gourd full of water to his 
waist, drew up the straps of his boots, and prepared to depart. 



84 SELECTED READINGS 

He racked his brains as to what direction he should take first 
— everywhere the land was good. 

" 'T is all one/' thought he, " I '11 go toward the setting of 
the sun." 

Pakhom set out at a leisurely, even pace. He went a mile 
and then bade them plant a pole. He went on farther. His 
limbs began to lose their first stiffness. He quickened his 
pace. Pakhom glanced back at the sun. The top of the 
mound was well in sight, with the group standing on it. 
Pakhom calculated that he had gone five miles. And now he 
began to sweat. He cast off his doublet and girded himself 
still tighter. He went on farther and covered another five 
miles. It began to be hot. Again he looked back at the sun. 
It was already breakfast-time. 

" I have now done one wagon-stage," thought he, " four 
wagon-stages make a good day's journey. It is still too early 
to turn back, but I may at least loosen my boots." He sat 
down, made his boots easier and went on farther. It was now 
much easier going. He thought, " I '11 go another five miles, 
and then I '11 turn to the left. This spot is good." 

But the farther he went the better the land got. He con- 
tinued to go straight on. He looked round at last. The 
mound was scarcely visible, and the people upon it looked like 
black ants. 

" Well," thought Pakhom, " I have taken enough in this 
direction. I must turn off now." He had grown very hot and 
felt a strong desire to drink. So he raised his gourd to his 
mouth and drank without stopping; and turned off sharply 
to the left. He went on and on. The heat became oppressive. 
Pakhom stood still. He looked at the sun. It was dinner- 
time. " Well," thought Pakhom, " I must rest, I suppose." 
So he stopped and ate some bread but would not sit down. 
" For," thought he, " if you begin to sit down you will want 
to lie down, and if you lie down you will go to sleep." So he 
stood still for a little while to get his breath, and then on he 
went again. At first it was easy going. His food had forti- 
fied him. But soon it grew very hot again, and the sun beat 
full upon him. Pakhom began to grow mortally weary. 
" Come, come ! " thought he, " endure for an hour and live 
like a king ever afterwards ! " 

So he went on and traversed in this direction likewise. 
He was about to turn to the left again, when his eye fell upon 
a very good little spot, a fresh, well watered ravine. He had 



PROSE SELECTIONS 85 

not the heart to leave it out, so he went straight on again, 
encompassed the ravine and turned the second corner. Pak- 
hom looked toward the mound. The people on it were just 
visible. It was exactly fifteen miles off. "Well," thought 
he, " I have made the first two sides of my domain very long, 
this one must be much shorter/' He now traversed the third 
side, taking longer strides than before. He looked again at 
the sun. It had already begun to decline. On the third side 
he had only gone two miles in all, and still he was quite fif- 
teen miles from the goal. " Well," thought he, " although 
my property will be somewhat lopsided, I must nevertheless 
keep straight on now. Any more would be more than I could 
manage. "I have got enough land at last." So Pakhom 
turned his steps straight toward the mound and very heavy 
going he found it. On he went, stumbling again and again. 
His legs ached and swelled, and seemed on the point of giving 
way beneath him altogether. He would have liked to rest, 
but that was now out of the question. He would never have 
reached the goal before sunset. The sun did not wait for 
him. It was not sinking, it was falling — falling as if some 
one was jerking it down. " Alas ! " thought Pakhom. 
(i Have I made a mistake ? Have I chosen too much ? Sup- 
pose I don't arrive in time ? Alas ! how far off it is ! I am 
wearied to death ! What if all my labor and trouble go for 
nothing ! " 

Pakhom pulled himself together and broke into a trot. 
His legs began to bleed but he ran for all that. He threw 
away his vest, his shoes, his water-gourd ; he threw away his 
hat. " Alas," thought Pakhom, " I have coveted too much, 
and I shall lose everything if I do not reach the goal in time," 
and a terrible fear seized upon his soul. Pakhom ran and 
ran. His shirt and his trousers, drenched with sweat, clave 
to his body; his mouth was parched and dry, his breast 
seemed to be a blacksmith's bellows; his heart beat like a 
hammer; his feet bent beneath him and no longer seemed 
his own. 

Pakhom thought no more of his land, what he thought was 
this : " Suppose I were to die of fatigue ! " He feared to die, 
but he could not find it in his heart to stop. " After running 
such a distance, to stop now ! " he thought. " No ; they 
would call me a fool ! What was that ? " He listened. The 
Bashkirs were shouting and bellowing to him to come on, 
and their shouts kindled his courage once more." Pakhom 



86 SELECTED READINGS 

ran with all the strength he still had left in him, — and just 
then the sun dipped on the horizon. But he was now quite 
close to the goal. Pakhom saw the people on the mound 
waving their hands to him and it goaded him on. And now 
he saw the fox-skin cap on the ground, and the money in it, 
and he saw the chief sitting on the ground and holding his 
sides. " The land is plenteous," thought he, " most plenteous, 
but will God let me live upon it ? Alas ! I have lost my very 
self," thought he. And still he kept running on. He looked 
back upon the sun. It was large and red and quite close to 
the ground; it was on the point of disappearing. Pakhom 
reached the foot of the mound and the sun went down. Pak- 
hom groaned. He already thought that he had lost every- 
thing ; but then it suddenly occurred to him that 't was only 
he, below there, who could not see the sun, from the top of 
the mound it must still be visible. Pakhom dashed toward 
the mound. He scaled it at a gallop and saw the fox-skin 
cap — yes ! there it lay ! Then he stumbled and fell, and as 
he fell he stretched out his hands toward the cap. 

" Well done, my son ! " roared the chief of the Bashkirs, 
" you have indeed won much land ! " 

Pakhom's laborer ran toward him, and would have lifted 
him up but he saw that blood was flowing from his mouth; 
there he lay — dead ! The laborer groaned, but the chief sat 
squatting on the ground, holding his sides and roaring with 
laughter. 

And now the Bashkir chief arose, took the money from the 
ground, and shouted to the laborer, " Come ! Dig ! " 

He dug Pakhom a grave and there he buried him. The 
grave was two Kussian ells in length, Pakhom's exact meas- 
urement from head to foot. 

Leo Tolstoi. 

Adapted by Anna Morgan. 

HER FIRST APPEARANCE 

MR. CARUTHERS was standing by the mantel over the 
empty fireplace, wrapped in a long, loose dressing- 
gown, which he was tying around him as Van Bibber entered. 
" Excuse my costume, will you ? " he said. " I turned in 
rather early to-night, it was so hot." 

" I was at the first night of ' The Sultana ' this evening." 
" Oh, yes, Lester's new piece. Was it any good ? " 



PROSE SELECTIONS 87 

" I don't know — yes, I think it was. I did n't see it from 
the front. There were a lot of children in it — little ones ; 
they danced and sang, and made a great hit. One of them 
had never been on the stage before. It was her first appear- 
ance. It seems to me that it is a great pity — I say it seems 
a pity that a child like that should be allowed to go on in that 
business. A grown woman can go into it with her eyes open, 
or a girl who has had a decent training can, too. But it ? s 
different with a child. She has no choice in the matter ; they 
don't ask her permission, and she is n't old enough to know 
what it means ; and she gets used to it and fond of it before 
she grows to know what the danger is. And then it's too 
late. It seemed to me that if there was any one who had the 
right to stop it, it would be a very good thing to let that 
person know about her — about this child I mean ; the one 
who made the hit — before it was too late. It seems to me 
a responsibility I would n't care to take myself. I would n't 
care to think that I had had the chance to stop it, and had 
let the chance go by. You know what the life is — we all 
know — every man knows." 

" What is all this about ? Did you come here, simply to 
tell me this ? Why did you come ? " 

" Because of the child." 

"What child?" 

" Your child." 

" Mr. Van Bibber, you are a very brave young man. You 
have dared to say to me what those who are my best friends 
— what even my own family would not care to say. You 
come here unasked, and uninvited, to let me know what you 
think of my conduct; to let me understand that it does not 
agree with your own ideas of what I ought to do, and to tell 
me how I, who am old enough to be your father, should be- 
have. I suppose I ought to thank you for it; but I have 
always said that it is not the wicked people who are to be 
feared in this world, or who do the most harm. It is the 
well-meaning fool who makes all the trouble. I think, if you 
will allow me to say so, that you have demonstrated my theory 
pretty thoroughly, and have done about as much needless 
harm for one evening as you can possibly wish. And so, if 
you will excuse me, I will ask to say good-night, and will 
request of you that you grow older and wiser and much more 
considerate before you come to see me again." 

" It is very easy to call a man a fool, but it is much harder 



88 SELECTED READINGS 

to be called a fool and not to throw the other man out of the 
window. But that, you see, would not do any good, and I 
have something to say first. I am quite well aware that I 
did an unconventional thing in coming here — a bold thing, 
or a foolish thing, as you choose — but the situation is pretty 
bad and I did as I would have wished to be done by if I had 
had a child going to the devil and did n't know it. I should 
have been glad to learn of it even from a stranger. How- 
ever, there are other kindly disposed people in the world be- 
sides fathers. There is an aunt perhaps, or an uncle or two ; 
and sometimes, even to-day, there is the chance Samaritan. 
Good-night." 

"Wait just one minute, please, Mr. Van Bibber. Before 
you go, I want to say — I want you to understand my posi- 
tion. When I married I did so against the wishes of my 
people and the advice of all my friends. You know all about 
that. God help us! who doesn't? It was very rich, rare 
reading for you, and for every one else who saw the daily 
papers, and we gave them all they wanted of it. I took her 
out of that life and married her because I believed she was as 
good a woman as any of those who had never had to work for 
their living, and I was bound that my friends and your 
friends should recognize her and respect her as my wife had 
a right to be respected; and I took her abroad that I might 
give all you sensitive, fine people a chance to get used to the 
idea of being polite to a woman who had once been a bur- 
lesque actress. It began over there in Paris. She had every 
chance when she married me that a woman ever had — all 
that a man's whole thought and love and money could bring 
her. And you know what she did. And after the divorce — 
and she was free to go where she pleased, and to live as she 
pleased, and with whom she pleased, — I swore to my God 
that I would never see her nor her child again. I loved the 
mother, and she deceived me and disgraced me and broke my 
heart, and I only wish she had killed me. Was I to love and 
worship and care for this child and have her grow up with 
all her mother's vanity, and have her turn on me some day 
and show me that what is bred in the bone must tell, and that 
I was a fool again — a pitiful fond fool ? I could not trust 
her; I can never trust any woman or child again, and least 
of all that woman's child. She is as dead to me as though 
she were buried with her mother, and it is nothing to me 
what she is or what her life is. I know in time what it will 



PROSE SELECTIONS 89 

be. She has begun earlier than I had supposed, that is all; 
but she is nothing to me. Oh, I care too much. I cannot let 
her mean anything to me ; when I do care, it means so much 
more to me than to other men. They may pretend to laugh 
and to forget and to outgrow it, but it is not so with me. 
Why, man, I loved that child's mother to the day of her 
death. I loved that woman then, and God help me ! I love 
that woman still." 

" Mr. Caruthers, I came here, as you say, on impulse ; but 
I am glad I came, for I have your decisive answer about the 
child. I have been thinking, since you have been speaking, 
and before, when I saw her dancing in front of the footlights, 
when I did not know who she was, that I could give up a 
horse or two, if necessary, and support this child instead. 
Children are worth more than horses. As you say, it's a 
good deal of an experiment, but I think I'll run the risk." 
He walked quickly to the door and disappeared in the hall, 
and then came back, kicking the door open as he returned, 
and holding the child in his arms. 

" This is she ; this is your child. She will need to be fed 
a bit. She is thin and peaked and tired-looking." He drew 
up the loose sleeve of her jacket, and showed the bare forearm 
to the light. " It is very thin, and under her eyes you can see 
how deep the lines are. This red spot on her cheek is where 
the chorus girls kissed her, but they will never kiss her again. 
She is going to grow up a sweet, fine, beautiful woman. It 
seems a pity she will grow up without knowing who her 
father is, or was, if he should die." 

The child in his arms stirred, shivered slightly, and awoke. 
She raised her head and stared around the unfamiliar room 
doubtfully, then turned to where her father stood, looking 
at him a moment, and passed him by; and then looking up 
into Van Bibber's face, recognized him, and gave a gentle, 
sleepy smile, and with a sigh of content and confidence, drew 
her arm up closer around his neck, and let her head fall back 
upon his breast. 

The father sprang to his feet with a quick, jealous gasp of 
pain. 

" Give her to me ! She is mine ; give her to me ! " 

Van Bibber closed the door gently behind him, and went 
jumping down the winding stairs of the Berkley, three steps 
at a time. 

And an hour later, when the English servant came to his 



90 SELECTED READINGS 

master's door, he found him still awake and sitting in the 
dark by the open window, holding something in his arms and 
looking out over the sleeping city. 

"James, you can make up a place for me here on the 
lounge. Miss Caruthers, my daughter, will sleep in my room 
to-night." 

Richard Harding Davis. 

Abridged by Anna Morgan. 

A PASSION IN THE DESERT 

DURING an expedition in Upper Egypt a Provencal 
soldier was made a prisoner by the Arabs and taken 
into the desert beyond the falls of the Mle. In order to 
place a sufficient distance between themselves and the French 
army, the Arabs made forced marches, and rested only dur- 
ing the night. They camped round a well overshadowed by 
palm trees. 

Not dreaming that the notion of flight would occur to their 
prisoner, they contented themselves with binding his hands 
and went to sleep. When the brave Provencal saw that his 
enemies were no longer watching him, he made use of his teeth 
to seize a scimitar, fixed the blade between his knees, and cut 
the cords which prevented him from using his hands. In a 
moment he was free. He at once seized a rifle and a dagger, 
leapt on to a horse, and spurred on vigorously in the direc- 
tion where he thought to find the French army. So impa- 
tient was he that he pressed on the already tired courser at 
such speed that its flanks were lacerated with his spurs, and 
at last the poor animal died, leaving the Frenchman alone 
in the desert. After walking some time in the sand the sol- 
dier was obliged to stop, as the day had already ended. 

In spite of the beauty of an Oriental sky at night, he felt 
he had not strength enough to go on. Fortunately he had 
been able to find a small hill, on the summit of which a few 
palm trees shot up into the air ; his fatigue was so great that 
he lay down in a natural grotto and fell asleep. In the middle 
of the night his sleep was troubled by an extraordinary noise ; 
he sat up, and the deep silence around him allowed him to dis- 
tinguish the alternating accents of a respiration whose savage 
energy could not belong to a human creature. 

He almost felt his hair stand on end, when by straining 
his eyes to their utmost he perceived a huge animal lying but 



PROSE SELECTIONS 91 

two steps from him. Presently the reflection of the moon 
lit up the den, rendering gradually visible and resplendent 
the spotted skin of a panther curled up like a big dog. Her 
eyes opened for a moment and closed again; her face was 
turned toward the man. A thousand confused thoughts 
passed through the Frenchman's mind; first he thought of 
killing it with a bullet from his gun, but he saw there was 
not enough distance between them for him to take proper 
aim — the shot would miss the mark. And if the beast were 
to wake ! — the thought made his limbs rigid. He listened 
to his own heart beating in the midst of the silence. 

Twice he placed his hand on his scimitar intending to cut 
off the head of his enemy ; to miss would be to die for cer- 
tain, he thought ; he preferred the chances of fair fight, and 
made up his mind to wait till morning. 

A bold thought brought daylight to his soul and cheeked 
the cold sweat which sprang forth on his brow. He resolved 
to play his part with honor to the last. 

When the sun appeared, the panther suddenly opened her 
eyes ; then she put out her paws with energy, as if to stretch 
them and get rid of cramp ; then turned her head toward the 
man and looked at him fixedly without moving. He looked 
at her caressingly, staring into her eyes in order to magnetize 
her, and let her come quite close to him ; then with a gentle 
movement he passed his hand over her body. 

The animal waved her tail voluptuously, and her eyes grew 
gentle; and when for the third time the Frenchman accom- 
plished this interesting flattery she gave forth one of those 
purrings by which our cats express their pleasure. When he 
felt sure of having extinguished the ferocity of his capricious 
companion by redoubling his caresses he got up to go out of 
the cave. As the panther's hunger had fortunately been sat- 
isfied the day before, she let him go out, and when he had 
reached the summit of the hill she sprang after him and 
rubbed herself against his legs, putting up her back after the 
manner of all the race of cats. Then regarding her guest 
with eyes whose glare had softened a little, she gave vent to 
a wild cry. The Frenchman began to play with her ears ; he 
scratched her head as hard as he could. When he saw he was 
successful he tickled her skull with the point of his dagger, 
watching for the moment to kill her. 

The Sultana of the desert showed herself gracious to her 



92 SELECTED READINGS 

slave ; she lifted her head, stretched out her neck, and mani- 
fested her delight by the tranquillity of her attitude. It sud- 
denly occurred to the soldier that to kill this savage princess 
with one blow he must poniard her in the throat. He raised 
the blade, when the panther laid herself gracefully at his 
feet, and cast up at him glances in which, in spite of their 
natural fierceness, was mingled confusedly a kind of good- 
will. The poor Provengal leaned against one of the palm- 
trees, casting his eye upon the desert in quest of some libera- 
tor. He tried if he might walk up and down. And the 
panther left him free, contenting herself with following him 
with her eyes, observing everything and every movement of 
her master. The soldier conceived the wild hope of continu- 
ing on good terms with the panther, neglecting no means of 
taming her and remaining in her good graces. When he 
returned to her, he had the unspeakable joy of seeing her wag 
her tail with an almost imperceptible movement at his 
approach. 

He sat down without fear by her side and they began to 
play together ; he took her paws and muzzle, pulled her ears, 
rolled her over on her back, stroked her warm delicate flanks. 
The man, however, kept his dagger in one hand thinking to 
plunge it into the too-confiding panther, but he was afraid 
that he would be immediately strangled in her last convulsive 
struggle; besides, he felt in his heart sort of remorse which 
bid him respect a creature that had done him no harm. He 
seemed to have found a friend, in a boundless desert; half 
unconsciously he thought of his first sweetheart, whom he had 
nicknamed " Mignonne." This memory of his early days 
suggested to him the idea of making the young panther an- 
swer to this name. Toward the end of the day he had famil- 
iarized himself with his perilous position, and almost liked 
the painfulness of it. . . . The soldier waited with impa- 
tience for the hour when Mignonne should fall asleep, which 
she did at the setting of the sun ; then he prepared for flight 
in the direction of the Nile. Hardly had he made a quarter 
of a league in the sand when he heard the panther bounding 
after him, crying with that saw-like cry more dreadful even 
than the sound of her leaping. 

" Ah," he said, " she 's taken a fancy to me ; she has never 
met any one before, and it is really quite flattering to have 
her first love." That instant the man fell into one of those 



PROSE SELECTIONS 93 

treacherous quicksands so terrible to travellers, and from 
which it is impossible to save oneself. Feeling himself 
caught, he gave a shriek of alarm, the panther seized him with 
her teeth by the collar, and, springing vigorously backwards, 
drew him as if by magic out of the whirling sand. " Ah, 
Mignonne, we are bound together for life and death." 

From that time the desert seemed inhabited. It contained 
a being to whom the man could talk, and whose ferocity was 
rendered gentle by him, though he could not explain to him- 
self the reason for their strange friendship. 

One day in a bright midday sun, an enormous bird coursed 
through the air. The man left his panther to look at this 
new guest; but after waiting a moment the deserted Sul- 
tana growled deeply. " I do believe she 's jealous," cried the 
soldier, seeing her eyes become hard again. The man and 
the panther looked at one another with a look full of mean- 
ing; the coquette quivered when she felt her friend stroke 
her head; her eyes flashed like lightning — then she shut 
them tightly. 

" She has a soul," he said, looking at the stillness of this 
queen of the sands, golden like them, white like them, soli- 
tary and burning like them. 

But this passion of the desert ended as all great passions 
do end — by a misunderstanding. From some reason one sus- 
pects the other of treason ; they don't come to an explanation 
through pride, and quarrel and part from sheer obstinacy. 

" I don't know if I hurt her," said the soldier, " but she 
turned round, as if enraged, and with her sharp teeth caught 
hold of my leg — gently, I daresay; but I, thinking she 
would devour me, plunged my dagger into her throat. She 
rolled over, giving a cry that froze my heart ; and I saw her 
dying, still looking at me without anger. I would have 
given all the world to bring her to life again. It was as 
though I had murdered a real person. The soldiers who 
finally came to my assistance found me in tears. 

" Since then I have been in war in Germany, in Spain, in 
Eussia, in France; but never have I seen anything like the 
desert. It is very beautiful and what you feel there cannot 
be described. In the desert, you see, there is everything, and 
nothing. It is God without mankind." 

Honore de Balzac. 

Abridged by Anna Morgan. 



94 SELECTED READINGS 



FREDERICK OF THE ALBERIGHI AND 
HIS FALCON 

IK Florence there was a young man called Frederick, son 
of Master Philip Alberighi, who for military ability and 
for courteous manners was reputed above all other gentlemen 
of Tuscany. He became enamored of a gentle lady called 
Madam Giovanna, in her time considered the most beautiful 
and the most graceful woman in Florence. In order that 
he might win her love he tilted and exercised in arms, made 
feasts and presents, and spent all his substance without re- 
straint. But Madam Giovanna, no less honest than beauti- 
ful, cared not for him or for those things which he did for 
her. Frederick then spent more than his means admitted, 
his money disappeared, and he remained poor and without 
any other property than a little farm, by the income of which 
he was barely able to live; besides this, he had his falcon, 
one of the best in the world. 

Now it happened one day, when Frederick had come to 
extreme poverty, that the husband of Madam Giovanna be- 
came ill and died. Remaining then a widow, she went that 
summer with her son into the country on an estate of hers 
near to that of Frederick. It happened that this boy, hav- 
ing many times seen Frederick's falcon fly, took an extreme 
pleasure in it and desired very greatly to have it, but did 
not dare to ask it, seeing that it was so dear to Frederick. 

In this state of things it happened that the boy became 
ill. The mother, sorrowing gently, tended him constantly 
and begged him, if there was anything that he wanted, to 
tell her and if it were possible she would obtain it for 
him. 

The young man said : " Mother, if you can manage that 
I should have Frederick's falcon, I believe that I should get 
well at once." 

The mother knew that Frederick had long loved her, and 
that he had never received from her even a look. On this 
account she said : " How can I send to him or go to him, to 
ask for this falcon, which is the thing that he most loves, 
and which besides maintains him in the world." Finally, 
the love of her son overcoming her, she decided to satisfy 
him, whatever might happen, and she replied: "My son, 
be comforted and try to get well, for I promise you that the 



PROSE SELECTIONS 95 

first thing that I do to-morrow will be to go and bring to 
you the falcon." 

The lady the next day took a companion, and went to the 
house of Frederick and asked for him. Frederick having 
saluted her with reverence, she said : " Frederick, I have 
come to recompense you for the losses which you have al- 
ready had on my account; and the reparation is, then, that 
I intend with this my companion to dine with you familiarly 
to-day." 

To this Frederick humbly replied: "Madam, if ever I 
was worth anything, it is due to your worth, and to the love 
which I have borne you; and certainly your frank visit is 
dearer to me than would have been the being able to spend 
as much more as I have already spent, for you have come to 
a very poor house." So saying, he received them into his 
house in humility and conducted them into his garden ; and 
then said : " Madam, since there is no one else, this good 
woman, the wife of my gardener, will keep you company 
while I go to arrange the table." 

He, although his poverty was so great, had not yet real- 
ized how he had, without method or pleasure, spent his for- 
tune; but this morning, finding nothing with which he 
could do honor to the lady, he suffered extremely ; he cursed 
his fortune, and as a man beside himself, ran hither and 
thither, finding neither money nor anything to pawn. At 
length, his desire being to honor the gentle lady in some man- 
ner, and not wishing to call on anybody else but rather to 
do all himself, his eye fell upon his beloved falcon, which 
was on its perch above the table. He therefore took it, and 
finding it fat, and not having any other resource, he con- 
sidered it to be a proper food for such a woman; and with- 
out thinking any further, he wrung its neck and ordered 
his servant that it be prepared and roasted immediately. 
And setting the table with the whitest of linen, of which he 
had a little left, with a delighted countenance he returned 
to the lady and told her that such dinner as he was able to 
prepare for her was ready. Thereupon, the lady with her 
companion went to dinner, and without knowing what Fred- 
erick served, ate the good falcon. 

Then, leaving the table, she began amicably to say to 
Frederick : " Frederick, recalling your past life and my 
honesty, which perhaps you considered cruelty and severity, 
I do not doubt in the least that you will be astonished at my 



9G SELECTED READINGS 

presumption, hearing what I have come for ; but if you had 
ever had children, it seems to me certain that in part you 
would excuse me. But as you have not, I, who have a son, 
cannot escape the law common to all mothers, and ask of 
you a gift which I know is extremely dear to you; that gift 
is your falcon, of which my boy has become so strongly 
enamored, that if I do not take it to him I fear I may lose 
him in consequence. Therefore I pray you, not on account 
of the love which you bear me, but because of your gener- 
osity, which has shown greater courtesy than that of any 
other man, that you would be so kind, so good, as to give it 
to me, in order that by this gift the life of my son may be 
preserved and I be forever under obligation to you." 

Frederick, knowing that he could not serve her, because 
he had already given it to her to eat, began to weep so that 
he could not speak a word in reply. The lady at first be- 
lieved it to be for sorrow at having to give up his good fal- 
con, and was about to tell him that she did not want it. 

Then Frederick spoke thus : " Madam, since it pleased 
God that I bestow my love upon you, money, influence, and 
fortune have been contrary to me, and have given me great 
trouble; but all these things are trivial in comparison with 
what fortune makes me at present suffer; for which I shall 
never have peace, thinking that you have come here to my 
poor house — to which while I was rich you never deigned 
to come — and asked of me a little gift, and that fortune 
has so decreed that I shall not be able to give it to you. When 
I heard that you in your kindness wished to dine with me, 
I considered it worthy and proper to give you the most 
precious food in my power, and therefore had the falcon 
prepared for you; but now seeing that you have desired it 
in another manner, the sorrow that I cannot so please you 
is so great that never again shall I have peace. Saying this, 
he brought before them the feathers and the feet and the 
beak in evidence. 

The lady first blamed him, then praised the greatness of 
his mind, which his poverty had not been able to diminish. 
Then, there being no hope of having the falcon, she de- 
parted in sadness and returned to her son; who, either for 
grief at not being able to have the falcon, or for the illness 
which perhaps had brought him to this state, did not sur- 
vive for many days, and, to the great sorrow of his mother, 
passed from this life. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 97 

She, full of sorrow, remaining rich and young, was urged 
many times by her brothers to marry. Kemembering the 
worth of Frederick, and that he had killed his beloved falcon 
to honor her, she said to her brothers : " I would willingly 
if it please you, remain as I am; but if it please you more 
that I should take a husband, certainly I shall never take 
any other if I do not take Frederick degli Alberighi." 

At this her brothers, making fun of her, said : " Silly 
creature, what do you say? Why do you choose him? He 
has nothing in the world." 

To this she replied : " My brothers, I know very well that 
it is as you say; but I would rather have a man who has 
need of riches, than riches without a man." 

Boccaccio. 

'Adapted by Anna Morgan. 

DOMINFS TRIUMPH* 

A SILENCE had fallen between Domini and Androvsky 
which neither seemed able to break. They rode on 
side by side across the sands toward the north through the 
long day. The towers of Amara faded in the sunshine above 
the white crests of the dunes. The Arab villages upon their 
little hills disappeared in the quivering gold. Dreams of 
the mirage rose and faded far off on the horizon, rose and 
faded mystically, leaving no trembling trace behind. And 
they were silent as the mirage, she in her purpose, he in his 
wonder. And the long day waned, and toward evening the 
camp was pitched and the evening meal was prepared. And 
still they could not speak. 

Sometimes Androvsky watched her, and there was a great 
calm in her face, but there was no rebuke, no smallness of 
anger, no hint of despair. Always he had felt her strength 
of mind and body, but never so much as now. Could he 
rest on it? Dared he? He did not know. And the day 
seemed to him to become a dream, and the silence recalled 
to him the silence of the monastery in which he had wor- 
shipped God. He rode on and on beside her, and his sense 
of a dream deepened, helped by the influence of the desert. 
Where were they going? He did not know. What was her 
purpose? He could not tell. But he felt that she had a 

* By permission of the author and the publishers of " The Garden of Allah," 
Messrs. Frederick A. Stokes Company. 

7 



98 SELECTED READINGS 

purpose, that her mind was resolved. The desert understood 
their silence, clothed it in a silence more vast and more 
impenetrable. And Androvsky had made his effort. He had 
spoken the truth at last. He could do no more. He was 
incapable of any further action. As Domini felt herself to 
be in the hands of God, he felt himself to be in the hands 
of this woman who had received his confession with this 
wonderful calm, who was leading him he knew not whither 
in this wonderful silence. 

When the camp was pitched, however, he noticed some- 
thing that caught him sharply away from the dreamlike, 
unreal feeling, and set him face to face with fact that was 
cold as steel. Always till now the dressing-tent had been 
pitched beside their sleeping-tent, with the flap of the en- 
trance removed, so that the two tents communicated. To- 
night it stood apart, near the sleeping-tent, and in it was 
placed one of the small camp beds. Androvsky was alone 
when he saw this. On reaching the halting-place he had 
walked a little way into the desert. When he returned he 
found this change. It told him something of what was 
passing in Dominies mind, and it marked the transformation 
of their mutual life. As he gazed at the two tents he felt 
stricken, yet he felt a curious sense of something that was 
like — was it not like — relief ? It was as if his body had 
received a frightful blow and on his soul a saint's hand had 
been gently laid, as if something fell about him in ruins, 
and at the same time a building which he loved, and which 
for a moment he had thought tottering, stood firm before 
him founded upon rock. He was a man capable of a pas- 
sionate belief, despite his sin, and he had always had a pas- 
sionate belief in Domini's religion. That morning, when she 
came out to him in the sand, a momentary doubt had as- 
sailed him. He had known the thought, " Does she love me 
still — does she love me more than she loves God ? " Now, 
as he looked at the two tents, a white light seemed to fall 
upon Domini's character, and in this white light stood the 
ruin and the house that was founded upon a rock. He was 
torn by conflicting sensations of despair and triumph. She 
was what he had believed. That made the triumph. But 
since she was that where was his future with her? The monk 
and the man who had fled from the monastery stood up 
within him to do battle. The monk knew triumph, but the 
man was in torment. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 99 

Presently, as Androvsky looked at the two tents, the monk 
in him seemed to die a new death, the man who had left the 
monastery to know a new resurrection. He was seized by 
a furious desire to go backward in time, to go backward but 
a few hours, to the moment when Domini did not know what 
now she knew. He cursed himself for what he had done. 
At last he had been able to pray. Yes, but what was prayer 
now, what was prayer to the man who looked at the two tents 
and understood what they meant? He moved away and 
began to wall? up and down near to the two tents. He did 
not know where Domini was. Never in the monastery, never 
even in the night when he left it, had he been tormented like 
this. For now he had a terrible companion whom, at that 
time, he had not known. Memory walked with him before 
the tents, the memory of his body, recalling and calling for 
the past. 

He had destroyed that past himself. But for him it might 
have been also the present, the future. It might have lasted 
for years, perhaps till death took him or Domini. Why not ? 
He had only had to keep silence, to insist on remaining in 
the desert, far from the busy ways of men. They could have 
lived as certain others lived, who loved the free, the solitary 
life, in an oasis of their own, tending their gardens of palms. 
Life would have gone like a sunlit dream. And death ? At 
that thought he shuddered. Death — what would that have 
been to him? What would it be now when it came? He 
put the thought from him with force, as a man thrusts away 
from him the filthy hand of a clamoring stranger assailing 
him in the street. 

This evening he had no time to think of death. Life was 
enough, life with this terror which he had deliberately placed 
in it. 

He thought of himself as a madman for having spoken to 
Domini. He cursed himself as a madman. For he knew, 
although he strove furiously not to know, how irrevocable 
was his act, in consequence of the great strength of her 
nature. He knew that though she had been to him a woman 
of fire she might be to him a woman of iron — - even to him 
whom she loved. 

How she had loved him ! 

He walked faster before the tents, to and fro. 

How she had loved him ! How she loved him still, at this 
moment, after she knew what he was, what he had done to 



100 SELECTED READINGS 

her. He had no doubt of her love as he walked there. He 
felt it, like a tender hand upon him. But that hand was in- 
flexible too. In its softness there was firmness — firmness 
that would never yield to any strength in him. 

Those two tents told him the story of her strength. As he 
looked at them he was looking into her soul. And her soul 
was in direct conflict with his. That was what he felt. She 
had thought, she had made up her mind. Quietly, silently 
she had acted. By that action, without a word, she had 
spoken to him, told him a tremendous thing. And the man 
— the passionate man who had left the monastery — loose 
in him now was aflame with an impotent desire that was 
like a heat of fury against her, while the monk, hidden far 
down in him, was secretly worshipping her cleanliness of 
spirit. 

But the man who had left the monastery was in the as- 
cendant in him, and at last drove him to a determination 
that the monk secretly knew to be utterly vain. He made 
up his mind to enter into conflict with Domini's strength. 
He felt that he must, that he could not quietly, without a 
word, accept this sudden new life of separation symbolized 
for him by the two tents standing apart. 

In the distance, under the palms, he saw the poet Batouch. 

" Batouch ! " he called out sharply. " Batouch ! Where 
i — where is Madame?" 

With a sweeping arm the poet pointed toward a hump of 
sand crowned by a few palms. Domini was sitting there, 
surrounded by Arab children, to whom she was giving sweets 
out of a box. As Androvsky saw her the anger in him burnt 
up more fiercely. 

He looked again at the two tents as a man looks at two 
enemies. Then, walking quickly, he approached Domini. 
She did not see him. The little Arabs were dancing round 
her on their naked feet. Androvsky gazed at the woman who 
was causing this childish joy, and he saw a profound sad- 
ness. Never had he seen Domini's face look like this. It 
was always white, but now its whiteness was like a whiteness 
of marble. One of the children saw him, shrieked, pointed. 
Domini glanced round. As she saw him she smiled, threw 
the last sugar-plums and came toward him. " Do you want 
me?" 

" Yes, I want you. Domini — Domini. You can — you 
can play with children — to-day." 



PROSE SELECTIONS 101 

" I wanted to feel I could give a little happiness to-day — 
even to-day." 

" To-day when — when to me — to me — yon are giving 



But before her steady gaze all the words he had meant to 
say, all the words of furious protest, died on his lips. 

« To me — to me " 

" Boris, I want to give you one thing, the thing that you 
have lost. I want to give you back peace." 

" You never can." 

" I must try. Even if I cannot, I shall know that I have 
tried." 

" You are giving me^- you are giving me not peace, but a 
sword." 

She understood that he had seen the two tents. 

" Sometimes a sword can give peace." 

" The peace of death." 

" Boris — my dear one — there are many kinds of deaths. 
Try to trust me. Leave me to act as I must act. Let me try 
to be guided — only let me try." 

He did not say another word. 

That night they slept apart for the first time since their 
marriage. 

" Domini, where are you taking me? Where are we 
going?" 

The camp was struck once more and they were riding 
through the desert. Domini hesitated to answer his ques- 
tion. It had been put with a sort of terror. 

" We are going back to Beni-Mora." 

" We are going to Beni-Mora ! " We are " 

He sat up on the wall, looking straight into her face. 

"Why?" 

" Boris, do you want to be at peace, not with me, but with 
God? Do you want to get rid of your burden of misery, 
which increases — I know it — day by day ? " 

"How can I?" 

" Is n't expiation the only way ? I think it is." 

" Expiation ! How — how can — I can never expiate my 
sin." 

" There 's no sin that cannot be expiated. God is n't merci- 
less. Come back with me to Beni-Mora. That little 
church — where you married me — - come back to it with me. 



102 SELECTED READINGS 

Where you married me you will — you must — make your 
confession." 

" That was your purpose ! That is where you are taking 
me ! I can't go, I won't ! Domini, think what you are 
doing ! You are asking too much " 

" I feel that God is asking that of you. Don't refuse 
Him." 

" I cannot go — at Beni-Mora where we — where every- 
thing will remind us " 

" Ah, don't you think I shall feel it too ? Don't you think 
I shall suffer?" 

" But our lives — but — if I go — afterwards — if I make 
my confession — afterwards — afterwards ? " 

" Is n't it enough to think of that one thing ? Is n't it 
better to put everything else, every other thought, away? 
It seems so clear to me that we should go to Beni-Mora. I 
feel as if I had been told — as a child is told to do something 
by its father." 

She looked up into the clear sky. 

" I am sure I have been told. I know I have." 

There was a long silence between them. Androvsky felt 
that he did not dare to break it. Something in Domini's face 
and voice cast out from him the instinct of revolt, of protest. 
He began to feel exhausted, without power, like a sick man 
who is being carried by bearers in a litter, and who looks at 
the landscape through which he is passing with listless eyes, 
and who scarcely has the force to care whither he is being 
borne. 

" Domini, if you say I must go to Beni-Mora, I will go. 
I have done you a great wrong and — and " 

" Don't think of me any more. Think — think as I do — 

of — of What am 1 ? I have loved you, I shall always 

love you, but I am as you are, here for a little while, else- 
where for all eternity. You told him — that man in the 
monastery — that we are shadows set in a world of shadows." 

" That was a lie. When I said that I had never loved, I 
had never loved 3 T ou." 

" Or was it a half-truth ? Are n't we, perhaps, shadow now 
in comparison to what we shall be ? Is n't this world, even 
this — this desert, this pool with the light on it, this silence 
of the night around us — is n't all this a shadow in compari- 
son to the world where we are going, you and I? Boris, I 
think if we are brave now we shall be together in that world. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 103 

But if we are cowards now, I think, I am sure, that in that 
world — the real world — we shall be separated forever. 
You and I, whatever we may be, whatever we may have done, 
at least are one thing — we are believers. We don't think 
this is all. If we did, it would be different. But we can't 
change the truth that is in our souls, and as we can't change 
it we must live by it, we must act by it. We can't do anything 
else. I can't — and you ? Don't you feel, don't you know, 
that you can't?" 

" To-night," he said, * I feel that I know nothing — noth- 
ing except that I am suffering." 

His voice broke on the last words. After a long silence he 
said: 

" Domini, take me where you will. If it is to Beni-Mora I 
will go. But — but — afterwards ? " 

" Don't let us think of afterwards, Boris. That song we 
have heard together, that song we love — ' No one but God 
and I knows what is in my heart.' I hear it now so often, 
always almost. It seems to gather meaning, it seems to — 
God knows what is in your heart and mine. He will take 
care of the — afterwards. Perhaps in our hearts already He 
has put a secret knowledge of the end." 

"Has He — has He put it — that knowledge — into 
yours ? " 

"Hush! "she said. 

She understood all the agony of spirit he was enduring, all 
the shame against which he was fighting. She longed to 
spring up, to take him in her arms, to comfort him as only 
the woman he loves and who loves him can comfort a man, 
without words, by the pressure of her arms, the pressure of 
her lips, the beating of her heart against his heart. She 
longed to do this so ardently that she moved restlessly, 
looking up at him with a light in her eyes that he had 
never seen in them before. But she did not lift her hand 
to his. 

" Boris," she said, * go. God will be with you." 

After a moment she added : 

" And all my heart." 

He stood, as if waiting, a long time. She had ceased from 
moving and had withdrawn her eyes from his. In his soul a 
voice was saying, " If she does not touch you now she will 
never touch you again." And he waited. He could not help 
waiting. 



104 SELECTED READINGS 

" Boris/' she whispered, " good-bye." 

" Good-bye ! " he said, and went out without another word. 

And now Domini knew a moment of utter despair, in which 
all things seemed to dissolve into atoms and sink down out of 
her sight. She stood quivering in blackness. She stood ab- 
solutely alone, more absolutely alone than any woman had 
ever been, than any human being had ever been. She seemed 
presently, as the blackness faded into something pale, like a 
ghastly twilight, to see herself standing in a vast landscape, 
vast as the desert, companionless, lost, forgotten, out of mind, 
watching for something that would never come, listening for 
some voice that was hushed in eternal silence. 

That was to be her life, she thought — could she face it ? 
Could she endure it ? And everything within her said to her 
that she could not. 

And then, just then, when she felt that she must sink down 
and give up the battle of life, she seemed to see by her side a 
shape, a little shape like a child. And it lifted up a hand to 
her hand. 

And she knew that the vast landscape was God's garden, 
the Garden of Allah, and that no day, no night could ever 
pass without God walking in it. 

KOBERT HlCHENS. 

Abridged by Anna Morgan. 

THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY* 

I SUPPOSE that very few casual readers of the New York 
Herald of August 13, 1863, observed, in an obscure 
corner, among the " Deaths," the announcement : 

" Nolan. Died, on board U. S. Corvette Levant, Lat. 2° 
11' S., Long. 131° W., on the 11th of May, Philip Nolan." 

There are hundreds of readers who would have paused at 
that announcement, if the officer who reported it had chosen 
to make it thus: "Died, May 11, The Man Without a 
Country." 

It seems to me worth while to tell a little of his story, by 
way of showing young Americans of to-day what it is to be 
A Man Without a Country. 

...... B 

* By permission of the author. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 105 

Philip Nolan was as fine a young officer as there was in 
the " Legion of the West." When Aaron Burr made his first 
dashing expedition down to New Orleans in 1805, he met, 
as the Devil would have it, this gay, dashing, bright young 
fellow; at some dinner-party, I think. Burr marked him, 
talked to him, walked with him, took him a day or two's 
voyage in his flatboat, and, in short, fascinated him. For the 
next year, barrack-life was very tame to poor Nolan. He 
occasionally availed himself of the permission the great man 
had given him to write to him. Long, high-worded, stilted 
letters the poor boy wrote and rewrote and copied. But never 
a line did he have in reply from the gay deceiver. The other 
boys in the garrison sneered at him, because he sacrificed his 
time in this unrequited affection for a politician. But one 
day Nolan had his revenge. This time Burr came down the 
river not as an attorney seeking a place for his office, but as 
a disguised conqueror. It was rumored that he had an army 
behind him and an empire before him. It was a great day — 
his arrival — to poor Nolan. Burr had not been at the fort 
an hour before he sent for him. That evening he asked 
Nolan to take him out in his skiff, to show him a canebrake 
or a cottonwood tree, as he said — really to seduce him ; and 
by the time the sail was over, Nolan was enlisted body and 
soul. From that time, though he did not yet know it, he 
lived as a man without a country. 

What Burr meant to do I know no more than you. It is 
none of our business just now. Only, when the grand catas- 
trophe came, and Jefferson and the House of Virginia of that 
day undertook to break on the wheel all the possible Clarences 
of the then House of York, by the great treason trial at Bich- 
mond, some of the lesser fry in that distant Mississippi 
Valley introduced the like novelty on their provincial stage; 
and, to while away the monotony of the summer at Fort 
Adams, got up, for spectacles, a string of court-martials on 
the officers there. One and another of the colonels and majors 
were tried, and, to fill out the list, little Nolan, against whom, 
Heaven knows, there was evidence enough — that he was sick 
of the service, had been willing to be false to it, and would 
have obeyed any order to march anywhither with any one who 
would follow him had the order been signed " By command 
of His Exc. A. Burr." The courts dragged on. The big flies 
escaped — rightly, for all I know. Nolan was proved guilty. 
Yet you and I would never have heard of him, but that, when 



106 SELECTED READINGS 

the president of the court asked him at the close whether he 
wished to say anything to show that he had always been faith- 
ful to the United States, he cried out in a fit of frenzy : 

" Damn the United States ! I wish I may never hear of 
the United States again ! " 

I suppose he did not know how the words shocked old Col- 
onel Morgan, who was holding the court. To him " United 
States" was scarcely a reality. Yet he had been fed by 
" United States " for all the years since he had been in the 
Army. He had sworn on his faith as a Christian to be true 
to " United States." It was " United States " which gave 
him the uniform he wore, and the sword by his side. Nay, 
my poor Nolan, it was only because "United States" had 
picked you out first as one of her own confidential men of 
honor that " A. Burr " cared for you a straw more than for 
the flatboat men who sailed his ark for him. I do not excuse 
Nolan; I only wish to explain why he damned his country, 
and wished he might never hear her name again. 

He heard her name but once again. From that moment, 
September 23, 1807, till the day he died, May 11, 1863, he 
never heard her name again. For that half -century and more 
he was a man without a country. 

Old Morgan, as I said, was terribly shocked. He called the 
court into his private room, and returned in fifteen minutes, 
with a face like a sheet, to say : 

" Prisoner, the court decides, subject to the approval of 
the President, that you never hear the name of the United 
States again." Then added : 

" Mr. Marshal, take the prisoner to Orleans in an armed 
boat, and deliver him to the naval commander there. See 
that no one mentions the United States to the prisoner. 
Make my respects to Lieutenant Mitchell at Orleans, and re- 
quest him to order that no one shall mention the United 
States to the prisoner while he is on board ship. You will 
receive your written orders from the officer on duty here this 
evening. The court is adjourned without day." 

Colonel Morgan himself took the proceedings of the court 
to Washington and explained them to Mr. Jefferson. The 
President approved them, and before the Nautilus got round 
to the northern Atlantic coast with the prisoner on board, the 
sentence had been approved, and he was a man without a 
country. 

The original paper of instructions ran much in this way : 



PROSE SELECTIONS 107 

" Washington (with a date which 
must have been late in 1807). 

" Sir : — You will receive from Lieutenant Neale the per- 
son of Philip Nolan, late a lieutenant in the United States 
Army. 

" This person on his trial by court-martial expressed, with 
an oath, the wish that lie might ' never hear of the United 
States again/ 

" The court sentenced him to have his wish fulfilled. 

" For the present, the execution of the order is intrusted 
by the President to this Department. 

" You will take the prisoner on board your ship, and keep 
him there with such precautions as shall prevent his escape. 

"You will provide him with such quarters, rations, and 
clothing as would be proper for an officer of his late rank if 
he were a passenger on your vessel on the business of his 
Government. 

" The gentlemen on board will make any arrangements 
agreeable to themselves regarding his society. He is to be 
exposed to no indignity of any kind, nor is he ever unneces- 
sarily to be reminded that he is a prisoner. 

"But under no circumstances is he ever to hear of his 
country or to see any information regarding it ; and you will 
especially caution all the officers under your command to take 
care that, in the various indulgences which may be granted, 
this rule, in which his punishment is involved, shall not be 
broken. 

" It is the intention of the Government that he shall never 
again see the country which he has disowned. Before the 
end of your cruise you will receive orders which will give 
effect to this intention. 

" Eespectfully yours, 

" W. Southard, for the 

" Secretary of the Navy." 

The rule adopted on board the ships on which I have met 
" the man without a country " was, I think, transmitted 
from the beginning. No mess liked to have him permanently, 
because his presence cut off all talk of home or of the prospect 
of return, of politics or letters, of peace or of war — cut off 
more than half the talk men like to have at sea. But it was 
always thought too hard that he should never meet the rest 
of us, except to touch hats, and we finally sank into one 



108 SELECTED READINGS 

system. He was not permitted to talk with the men unless 
an officer was by. With officers he had unrestrained inter- 
course, as far as they and he chose. But he grew shy, though 
he had favorites. Then the captain always asked him to din- 
ner on Monday. Every mess in succession took up the invi- 
tation in its turn. His breakfast he ate in his own stateroom 
— which was where a sentinel or somebody on the watch 
could see the door. And whatever else he ate or drank, he 
ate or drank alone. Sometimes, when the marines or sailors 
had any special jollification, they were permitted to invite 
" Plain-Buttons," as they called him. Then Nolan was sent 
with some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of 
home while he was there. They called him " Plain-Buttons " 
because, while he always chose to wear a regulation army uni- 
form, he was not permitted to wear the army button, for the 
reason that it bore either the initials or the insignia of the 
country he had disowned. 

Nolan must have been near eighty when he died. He 
looked sixty when he was forty. But he never seemed to me 
to change a hair afterwards. As I imagine his life, from 
what I have seen and heard of it, he must have been in every 
sea, and yet almost never on land. He must have known, 
in a formal way, more officers in our service than any man 
living knows. He told me once, with a grave smile, that no 
man in the world lived so methodical a life as he. " You 
know the boys say I am the Iron Mask, and you know how 
busy he was." He said it did not do for any one to try to 
read all the time, more than to do anything else all the time, 
but that he read just five hours a day. " Then," he said, " I 
keep up my note-books, writing in them at such and such 
hours from what I have been reading, and I include in these 
my scrap-books." These were very curious indeed. He had 
six or eight, of different subjects. There was one of History, 
one of Natural Science, one which he called " Odds and 
Ends." But they were not merely books of extracts from 
newspapers. They had bits of plants and ribbons, shells tied 
on, and carved scraps of bone and wood, which he had taught 
the men to cut for him, and they were beautifully illustrated. 
He drew admirably. He had some of the funniest drawings 
there, and some of the most pathetic that I have ever seen in 
my life. The men used to bring him birds and fish ? but on a 
long cruise he had to satisfy himself with centipedes and cock- 
roaches and such small game. He was the only naturalist I 



PROSE SELECTIONS 109 

ever met who knew anything about the habits of the house-fly 
and the mosquito. 

He always kept up his exercise, and I never heard that he 
was ill. If any other man was ill, he was the kindest nurse 
in the world; and he knew more than half the surgeons do. 
Then, if anybody was sick or died, or if the captain wanted 
him to, on any other occasion, he was always ready to read 
prayers. He read beautifully. 

There is a story that Nolan met Burr once on one of our 
vessels, when a party of Americans came on board in the 
Mediterranean. But it is clear from Burr's life that nothing 
of the sort could have happened. 

So poor Philip Nolan had his wish fulfilled. He repented 
of his folly, and then, like a man, submitted to the fate he 
had asked for. The following excerpt from a letter gives an 
account of Nolan's last hours. 

" Levant, 2° 2' S. @ 131° W. 

" Dear Fred : — I try to find heart and life to tell you 
that it is all over with dear old Nolan. I have been with him 
on this voyage more than I ever was, and I can understand 
wholly now the way in which you used to speak of the dear 
old fellow. I could see that he was not strong, but I had no 
idea the end was so near. The poor fellow lay in his berth, 
smiling pleasantly as he gave me his hand. I could not help 
a glance round, which showed me what a little shrine he had 
made of the box he was lying in. The Stars and Stripes were 
triced up above and around a picture of Washington, and he 
had painted a majestic eagle, with lightnings blazing from his 
beak and his foot just clasping the whole globe, which his 
wings overshadowed. The dear old boy saw my glance, and 
said, with a sad smile, ' Here, you see, I have a country ! ' 
And then he pointed to the foot of his bed, where I had not 
seen before a great map of the United States, as he had 
drawn it from memory, and which he had there to look upon 
as he lay. Quaint, queer old names were on it, in large let- 
ters : ' Indiana Territory/ ' Mississippi Territory,' and ' Louis- 
iana Territory,' as I suppose our fathers learned such things. 
But the old fellow had patched in Texas, too ; he had carried 
his western boundary all the way to the Pacific, but on that 
shore he had defined nothing. 

" ' Oh, Danf orth,' he said, ' I know I am dying. I cannot 
get home. Surely you will tell me something now ? Stop ! 



110 SELECTED READINGS 

Stop ! Do not speak till I say what I am sure you know, that 
there is not in this ship, that there is not in America — God 
bless her ! — a more loyal man than I. There cannot be a 
man who loves the old flag as I do, or prays for it as I do, or 
hopes for it as I do. There are thirty-four stars in it now, 
Danforth. I thank God for that, though I do not know what 
their names are. There has never been one taken away; I 
thank God for that. I know by that that there has never been 
any successful Burr. Oh, Danforth, Danforth, how like a 
wretched night's dream a boy's idea of personal fame or of 
separate sovereignty seems, when one looks back on it after 
such a life as mine! But tell me — tell me something — 
tell me everything, Danforth, before I die! Tell me their 
names/ he said, and he pointed to the stars on the flag. i The 
last I know is Ohio. My father lived in Kentucky. But I 
have guessed Michigan and Indiana and Mississippi — that 
was where Fort Adams is. They make twenty. But where 
are your other fourteen? You have not cut up any of the 
old ones, I hope ? ' 

" I told him the names in as good order as I could, and he 
bade me take down his beautiful map and draw them in as 
I best could with my pencil. He was wild with delight about 
Texas — told me how his cousin died there ; he had marked 
a gold cross near where he supposed his grave was; and he 
had guessed at Texas. Then he was delighted as he saw Cali- 
fornia and Oregon. That, he said, he had suspected partly, 
because he had never been permited to land on that shore, 
though the ships were there so much. ' And the men,' said 
he, laughing, ' brought off a good deal besides furs.' Then 
he went back — heavens, how far ! — to ask about the Chesa- 
peake, and what was done to Barron for surrendering her to 
the Leopard, and whether Burr ever tried again — and he 
ground his teeth with the only passion he showed. But in a 
moment that was over, arid he said, ' God forgive me, for I 
am sure I forgive him.' Then he asked about the old war — 
told me the true story of his serving the gun the day we took 
the Java. Then he settled down more quietly, and very hap- 
pily, to hear me tell in an hour the history of fifty years. 

" How I wished it had been somebody who knew some- 
thing ! But I did as well as I could. I told him of the Eng- 
lish war. I told him about Fulton and the steamboat begin- 
ning. I told him about old Scott, and Jackson — told him 
all I could think of about the Mississippi, and New Orleans, 



PROSE SELECTIONS 111 

and Texas, and his own old Kentucky. And what do you 
think he asked ? ' Who was in command of the Legion of the 
West ! ' I told him it was a very gallant officer named Grant, 
and that, by our last news, he was about to establish his head- 
quarters at Vicksburg. Then, ' Where was Vicksburg?' I 
worked that out on the map ; it was about a hundred miles, 
more or less, above his old Fort Adams, and I thought Fort 
Adams must be a ruin now. ' It must be at old Vick's plan- 
tation, at Walnut Hills/ said he ; ' well, that is a change ! ' 

"I tell you, Ingham, it was a hard thing to condense the 
history of half a century into that talk with a sick man. And 
I do not now know what I told him — of emigration, and 
the means of it — of steamboats, and railroads, and tele- 
graphs — of inventions, and books, and literature — of the 
colleges, and West Point, and the Naval School — but with 
the queerest interruptions that ever you heard. You see, it 
was Eobinson Crusoe asking all the accumulated questions 
of fifty-six }^ears ! 

" I remember he asked, all of a sudden, who was President 
now. And when I told him, he asked if Old Abe was General 
Benjamin Lincoln's son. He said he met old General Lin- 
coln, when he was quite a boy himself, at some Indian treaty. 
I said no, that Old Abe was a Kentuckian like himself, but I 
could not tell him of what family ; he had worked up from 
the ranks. ' Good for him ! ' cried Nolan ; ' I am glad of 
that. As I have brooded and wondered, I have thought our 
danger was in keeping up those regular successions in the first 
families.' Then I got talking about my visit to Washington. 
I told him of meeting the Oregon Congressman, Harding ; I 
told him about the Smithsonian, and the exploring Expedi- 
tion; I told him about the Capitol, and the statues for the 
pediment, and Crawford's Liberty, and Greenough's Wash- 
ington. Ingham, I told him everything I could think of that 
would show the grandeur of his country and its prosperity; 
but I could not make up my mouth to tell him a word about 
this infernal rebellion. 

" And he drank it in and enjoyed it as I cannot tell you. 
He grew more and more silent, yet I never thought he was 
tired or faint. I gave him a glass of water, but he just wet 
his lips, and told me not to go away. Then he asked me to 
bring the Presbyterian 'Book of Public Prayer,' which lay 
there, and said, with a smile, that it would open at the right 
place — and so it did. There was "his double red mark down 



112 SELECTED READINGS 

the page. And I knelt down and read, and he repeated with 
me, 6 For ourselves and our country, oh, gracious God, we 
thank Thee that, notwithstanding our manifold transgres- 
sions of Thy holy laws, Thou hast continued to us Thy mar- 
vellous kindness ' — and so to the end of that thanksgiving. 
Then he turned to the end of the same book, and I read the 
words more familiar to me : ' Most heartily we beseech Thee 
with Thy favor to behold and bless Thy servant, the Presi- 
dent of the United States, and all others in authority ' — and 
the rest of the Episcopal collect. f Danforth,' said he, ' I 
have repeated those prayers night and morning, it is now 
fifty-five years.' And then he said he would go to sleep. 

" He bent me down over him and kissed me, and he said, 
' Look in my Bible, Danforth, when I am gone.' And I went 
away. 

" But I had no thought it was the end. I thought he was 
tired and would sleep. I knew he was happy, and I wanted 
him to be alone. 

" But in an hour, when the doctor went in gently, he 
found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile. He 
had something pressed close to his lips. It was his father's 
badge of the Order of the Cincinnati. 

" We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper at 
the place where he had marked the text : 

" ' They desire a country, even a heavenly : wherefore God 
is not ashamed to be called their God : for He hath prepared 
for them a city.' 

" On this slip of paper he had written : 

" ' Bury me in the sea ; it has been my home, and I love it. 
But will not some one set up a stone for my memory at Fort 
Adams or at Orleans, that my disgrace may not be more than 
I ought to bear ? Say on it : 

" ' In Memory of 

«* PHILIP NOLAN, 

" ' Lieutenant in the Army of the United States. 

" ' He loved his country as no other man has 

loved her ; but no man deserved 

less at her hands.' " 

Edward Everett Hale. 
Abridged by Anna Morgan. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 113 

TWO LETTERS AND TWO TELEGRAMS* 



LETTEE from Benton Fosdick, Esq., of New York, to 
Thomas Plankton, Esq., of Albany. 

My Dear Old Tom : — A very momentous question — 
that 's what I 'm going to ask you, and I want you to go into 
a corner of the club, quite by yourself, with a good big cigar, 
and don't dismiss the subject from your mind till the cigar 's 
finished. Do it for the sake of our old college chumship. 

There's a girl I want to marry, at least I think I do, in 
fact I know I do. Shall I? That's the question. Of course 
I love her, or I couldn't feel this way, could I? She's 
young, very young, always talking about her birthday — has 
just had it, I mean, or it is just going to be — something of 
that sort. She's beautiful; the kind of hair I like; she 
does n't dress it in the fashion, and yet it never seems out ; 
there 's no William Tell effect on top, or a bath bun or bustle 
at the back, or Dolly Vardens at the side, it 's just coiled away 
somehow, somewhere, sort of parted in front, and half-way 
wavy, without being crimpy or fancy, and is darkish — you 
know the kind I mean. Lovely eyes, and all the rest of it; 
splendid figure; hand full of character, and awfully pretty 
Trilbys. Her father 's very rich and only has one other child, 
so although she has notions of her own, financially it's a 
chance most any fellow would be glad to speculate on. I only 
mention this to show you that I have n't completely lost my 
head ; of course, the money does n't make any difference to 
me, only I want you to understand that I 'm not altogether 
impracticable. 

Her position in society is all right, better than mine, and 
her mother is always on the go, balls and parties and smaller 
things for derniers ressorts, so she 'd never be a bother. 

Then the girl herself has a mind. Is tremendously inter- 
esting and original in all her conversation. Really I often 
ask her advice about serious things, and take it, besides, and 
always find I am right. She knows about art, and music, 
and is all around cultivated. The sort of girl you'd be 
deuced proud of anywhere. And what I feel particularly 
about her is that she would take such a great interest in me 
and my work. She 'd be a constant stimulant : she would 

* From "Some Correspondence," by Clyde Fitch. Copyright, 1896, by Stone & 
Kimball, Herbert S. Stone & Co., Successors, Duffield & Company, Successors. 



114 SELECTED READINGS 

adopt all my views, ideas, and ambitions ; she would lose her 
own self in me, devote herself to my work, and her life be 
absorbed in mine ! I would accomplish twice what I do now. 
She could do all the tedious mechanical work that takes so 
much time I might be giving to other things. She could help 
me in a thousand ways. She 'd always be on hand to protect 
me from the hundred and one sacrifices that come daily kick- 
ing one to take notice of them. 

Maybe my love blinds me, but I feel she has a beautiful 
character fully capable of doing all this for me. It seems to 
me it 's a chance in a lifetime that I ought n't to let slip by. 
And yet it 's an irretrievable sort of thing, this marriage, and 
I don't want to go into it too hastily, and perhaps find I 'd 
made a mistake after all and ruined my career instead of 
aiding it. So I come to you, remembering the old talks about 
marriage over the midnight woodfire that lasted almost till 
we heard the chapel bell for prayers. 

You were always falling in love; I never. You ought to 
understand the business better than I. (I heard, too, you 
almost ruined yourself a couple of years ago for a worthless 
girl, and nothing teaches like experience.) Think it out 
carefully, and send me word, shall I marry her ? 
Yours always sincerely, 

Benton - Fosdick. 

P. S. — I shall only wait a day to hear from you. 

II 

Telegram from Thomas Plankton, Esq., of Albany, to 
Benton Fosdick, Esq., of New York. 

In God's name, for the sake of the girl, DON'T. 

in 

Letter from Miss Beatrice Hauton, of New York, to Ben- 
ton Fosdick, Esq., of New York. 

Dear Mr. Fosdick : — I am very sorry. I trust I have n't 
been unconsciously flirting with you, for to be honest, while 
I enjoy enormously having you take me in to dinner, I 
could n't for one moment think of sitting opposite to you at 
the breakfast table ! I thank you sincerely for the honor you 
pay me, but I cannot be your wife. 

Sincerely your friend, 

Beatrice Hauton". 



PROSE SELECTIONS 115 

IV 

Telegram from Benton Fosdick, Esq., of New York, to 
Thomas Plankton, Esq., of Albany. 

Thanks, old man. Have taken your advice. B. F. 

Clyde Fitch. 

A LOVER OF MUSIC* 

JACQUES dropped into his place and filled it as if it had 
been made for him. There was something in his dispo- 
sition that seemed to fit him for just the role that was vacant 
in the social drama of the settlement. He had literally 
played his way into the affections of the village. 

He was at his best when he was alone with Serena, in the 
kitchen. Serena was a pretty girl, and particularly fond of 
reading and of music. It was this that made her so glad of 
the arrival of the violin. 

" Where 'd yon get your fiddle, Jack ? " 

" A '11 get heem in Kebeck. Ma teacher, to de College, he 
gif me dat violon, w'en Ah was gone away to de woods." 

" And why did you come away from the woods and travel 
down this way ? " 

"Ah'l tole you somefing, Ma'amselle Serene. You ma 
f rien'. Den you h'ask me dat reason of it no more. Dat 's 
somet'ing vair' bad, bad, bad. Ah can't nevair tole dat — 
nevair." 

A man with a secret in his life ? The knowledge of it gave 
Serena a new interest in Jacques and his music. 

Once, and only once, he seemed to come near betraying 
himself. This was how it happened: There was a party at 
Moody's one night, and Bull Corey had come down from the 
Upper Lake and filled himself up with whisky. Bull was an 
ugly-tempered fellow. The tide of his pugnacity that night 
took a straight set toward Fiddlin' Jack. 

Bull began with musical criticisms. The fiddling did not 
suit him at all. It was too quick, or else it was too slow. 
And now he took national grounds. The French were, in his 
opinion, not a patch on the noble American race. They 
talked too much, and their language was ridiculous. They 
had a condemned, fool habit of taking off their hats when 
they spoke to a lady. They ate frogs. 

* From " The Ruling Passion." Copyright, 1901, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



116 SELECTED READINGS 

Having delivered himself of these sentiments he marched 
over to the table on which Fiddlin' Jack was sitting, and 
grabbed the violin from his hands. 

" Gimme that dam' fiddle, till I see if there 's a frog in it." 

Jacques leaped from the table, transported with rage. His 
face was convulsed. His eyes blazed. He snatched a carving- 
knife from the dresser behind him, and sprang at Corey. 
Half a dozen men thrust themselves between the would-be 
combatants. There was a dead silence, a scuffling of feet on 
the bare floor ; then the danger was past. 

Jacques dropped on his knees, hid his face in his hands, 
and prayed: 

" My God, it is here again ! Was it not enough that I must 
be tempted once before? Must I have the madness yet an- 
other time ? I am a sinner, but not the second time ; for the 
love of Jesus, not the second time ! " 

There was a multitude of counsellors discussing what 
ought to be done about the fracas, when Hose Eansom settled 
the case. 

" Tell ye what we '11 do. Jess nothin'. Ain't Bull Corey 
the blowin'est and the mos' trouble-us cuss 'round these hull 
woods ? And would n't it be a fust-rate thing ef some o' the 
wind was let out 'n him ? And wa' n't Fiddlin' Jack peacer- 
able 'nough 's long 's he was let alone ? Ain't he given us a 
lot o' fun here this winter in a innercent kind o' way, with 
his old fiddle? I guess there ain't nothin' on airth he loves 
better 'n that hollor piece o' wood, and the toons tha 's inside 
o' it. It 's jess like a wife or a child to him." 

So the recording angel dropped another tear upon the rec- 
ord of Hosea Eansom, and the books were closed for the 
night. 

For some weeks after the incident of the violin and the 
carving knife, it looked as if a permanent cloud had settled 
upon the spirits of Fiddlin' Jack. He seemed in a fair way 
to be transformed into " the melancholy Jaques." 

It was Serena who broke the spell; and she did it in a 
woman's way, the simplest way in the world — by taking no 
notice of it. 

Through all the occupations and pleasures of the Summer 
Jacques kept as near as he could to Serena. 

So the Summer passed and by the time Winter came 
around again, Fiddlin' Jack was well settled at Moody's as a 
regular Adirondack guide. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 117 

The second Summer brought him in enough to commence 
building a little house. One day at the beginning of May, 
when the house was nearly finished, he asked Serena to stop 
in on her way home from the village and see what he had 
done. I do not want any one to suppose that there was a 
crisis in his affair of the heart, for there was none. Indeed, 
it is very doubtful whether anybody in the village, even 
Serena herself, ever dreamed that there was such an affair. 
Up to the point when the house was finished and fur- 
nished, it was to be a secret between Jacques and his 
violin. 

Serena was something of a sentimentalist, and a great 
reader of novels; but the international love-story had not 
yet been invented, and the idea of getting married to a for- 
eigner never entered her head. I do not say that she sus- 
pected nothing in the wild flowers, and the Sunday evening 
boat-rides, and the music. She was a woman. I have said 
already that she liked Jacques very much, and his violin 
pleased her to the heart. But the new building by the river ? 
I am sure she never even thought of it once, in the way that 
he did. 

Well, in the end of June, just after the furniture had come 
for the house, Serena was married to Hose Eansom. The 
wedding was at the Sportsmen's Retreat, and Jacques was 
there of course. There was nothing of the disconsolate lover 
about him. The strongest impulse in his nature was to be 
a giver of entertainment, a source of joy in others. And 
especially was he selfish enough to want to feel his ability to 
give Serena a pleasure at her wedding — a pleasure that no- 
body else could give her. When she asked him to play, he 
consented gladly. Never had he drawn the bow across the 
strings with a more magical touch. 

But Serena did not have many years to listen to the play- 
ing of Jacques Tremblay, for in the fourth year after her 
marriage she died, and Jacques stood beside Hose at the 
funeral. 

Hose Ransom sold his place on the hill, but Fiddlin' Jack 
lived on in the little house beside the river, and grew old 
gracefully. One Spring he caught a heavy cold and took to 
his bed. Hose came over to look after him. Jack was going 
to die. There was a Canadian priest in town that week, 
perhaps Jack would like to talk to him. His face lighted 
up at the proposal. Then the visitor came, a tall, friendly, 



118 SELECTED READINGS 

quiet-looking man about Jacques's age. The door was shut, 
and they were left alone together. 

(i I am comforted that you are come, mon pere, for I 
have the heavy heart. There is a secret that I have kept for 
many years, but now it is the time to speak. I have a sin to 
confess — a sin of the most grievous, of the most unpardon- 
able, that makes me fear to die. Long since, in Canada, be- 
fore I came to this place, I have killed a man. It was, it was 
in the camp, on the river St. Maurice. The big Baptiste 
Lacombe, that crazy boy who wants always to fight, he mocks 
me when I play, he snatches my violin, he goes to break him 
on the stove. There is a knife in my belt. I spring to Bap- 
tiste. I see no more what it is that I do. I cut him in the 
neck — once, twice. The blood flies out. He falls down. 
He cries, ( I die.' I grab my violin from the floor, quick ; 
then I run to the woods. No one can catch me. A blanket, 
the axe, some food, I get from a hiding-place down the river. 
Then I travel, travel, travel through the woods, how many 
days I know not, till I come here. No one knows me. I give 
myself the name Tremblay. I make the music for them. 
With my violin I live. I am happy. I forget. But it all 
returns to me — now — at the last. I have murdered. Is 
there forgiveness for me, mon pere ? " 

The priest's face had changed very swiftly at the mention 
of the camp on the St. Maurice. As the story went on, he 
grew strangely excited. His lips twitched. His hands 
trembled. At the end he sank on his knees, and looked into 
the countenance of the sick man, searching it as a forester 
searches in the undergrowth for a lost trail. Then his eyes 
lighted up as he found it. 

" My son, you are Jacques Dellaire. And I — do you 
know me now ? — I am Baptiste Lacombe. You have not 
murdered. You have given the stroke that changed my 
heart. Your sin is forgiven — and mine also — by the mercy 
of God!" 

The round clock ticked louder and louder. A level ray 
from the setting sun — red gold — came in through the 
dusty window and lay across the clasped hands on the bed. 
The clock ticked on. But there was a sweeter sound than 
that in the quiet room. 

It was the sound of the prayer which begins, in every lan- 
guage spoken by men, with the name of that Unseen One who 
rules over life's chances, and pities its discords, and tunes 



PROSE SELECTIONS 119 

it back again into harmony. Yes, this prayer of the little 
children who are only learning how to play the .first notes of 
life's music, turns to the great Master musician who knows 
it all and who loves to bring a melody out of every instrument 
that He has made ; and it seems to lay the soul in His hands 
to play upon as He will, while it calls Him, Our Father! 

Henry van Dyke. 
Adapted by Anna Morgan. 



FLEAS WILL BE FLEAS* 

MIKE FLANNERY was the star boarder at Mrs. 
Muldoon's. 

" Mike," said Mrs. Muldoon, one noon, " I know the opin- 
ion ye have of Dagos, and niver a one have I took into me 
house, and I think the same of thim meself — dirthy things, 
an' takin' the bread away from th' honest American laborin' 
man — and I would not be thinkin' of takin' one t' board at 
this day, but would ye to tell me this : — Is a Frinchmin a 
Dago?" 

"Mrs. Muldoon, mam, there be two kinds of Frinchmin. 
There be the respictible Frinchmin, an' there be the unres- 
pictible Frinchmin. They both be furriners, but they be 
classed different. Th' respictible Frinchmin is no worse than 
the Dutch, and is classed as Dutch, but th' other kinds is 
Dagos. But ye want tf have nawthing t' do with the Dago 
Frinch. They be a bad lot." 

" There was a Frinchmin askin' would I give him a room 
and board this mornin'," said Mrs. Muldoon. 

" If he be a Dutch Frinchmin let him come. Was he 
that?" 

" Sure, I don't know. 'T is a professor he is." 

" I have heard of thim. But 't is of insects they be pro- 
fessors, and not of one kind of insects alone, Mrs. Muldoon, 
mam. Ye have mistook th' understandin' of what he was 
sayin'." 

" I beg pardon to ye, but 't is not mistook I am. Fleas 
th' Professor said, and no mistake at all." 

"Yis? Well mebby 'tis so. He would be what ye call 
one of thim specialists. They do be doin' that now, I hear, 
and 'tis probable th' Frinchmin has fleas for his specialty. 

* Reprinted by permission of the author and The American Magazine. 



120 SELECTED READINGS 

'T is like this, mam : all professors is professors ; then a 
bunch of professors separate off from the rest and be pro- 
fessors of insects ; and then the professors of insects separate 
up, and one is professor of flies and another one is profes- 
sor of pinch bugs, and another is professor of toads, and 
another is professor of lobsters, and so on, until all the kinds 
of insects has each a professor to itself. And thim they call 
specialists, and each one knows more about his own kind of 
insect than any other man in the world knows. So mebby 
the Frinchmin is professor of fleas, as ye say." 

" I should think a grown man would want to be professor 
of something bigger than that, but there 's no accounting for 
tastes/' 

" If ye understand, mam, ye would not say that same, for 
to the flea professor the flea is as big as a house. He studies 
him through a telescope, Mrs. Muldoon, that magnifies th' 
flea a million times. Th' flea professor will take a dog with 
a flea on him, mam, and look at the same with his telescope, 
and the flea will be ten times the size of th' dog. 'T is by 
magnifyin' th' flea that the professor is able t' study so small 
an insect for years and years, discoverin' new beauties every 
day. One day he will be studyin' the small toe of th' flea's 
left hind foot, and th' next day he will be takin' a statue of 
it in plaster, and th' next day he will be photygraftin' it, 
and th' next he will be writin' out all he has learned of it, 
and then he will be weeks and months correspondin' with 
other flea professors in all parts of the world. And mebby 
he dies when he 's ninety years old and has only got one leg 
of the flea studied out. And then some other professor goes 
on where he left off, and takes up the next leg." 

" And do they get paid for it ? " 

" Sure, they do ! Good money too. A good specialist pro- 
fessor gits more than a hod-carrier. And 'tis right they 
should, for 't is by studyin' the feet of fleas, and such, they 
can learn about germs and how t' take out your appendix, 
and ' Is marriage a failure ? ' and all that." 

" Ye dumf ounder me, Mike Flannery. Ye should have- 
been one of thim professors yourself, what with all the knowl- 
edge ye have. And ye think 't would be a good thing t' let 
th' little Frinchmin come and take a room ? " 

" 'T would be an honor to shake him by th' hand." And 
so the Professor was admitted to the board and lodging of 
Mrs. Muldoon. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 121 

The Professor was a small man, and not talkative. He 
put his baggage in the small bedroom that Mrs. Muldoon 
allotted to him, and received the friendly advances of Flan- 
nery and the other boarders rather coldly. He refused to 
discuss his specialty or show Mike the toe of the left hind 
foot of a flea through the telescope. When he remained at 
home after dinner he did not sit with the other boarders, 
but walked up and down the walk, smoking innumerable 
cigarettes, and thinking, and waving his hands in mute 
conversations with himself. 

"I dunno what ails th' Professor," said Mrs. Muldoon, 
one evening to Mannery. 

" I would not like to say for sure, mam, but I 'm thinkin' 
'tis a loss he has had, maybe, that's preyin' on his mind. 
Ever since ye told me, Missus Muldoon, that he was a pro- 
fessor of th' educated fleas, I have had doubts of th' state 
of th' mind of th' Professor. Th' sense of studyin' th' flea, 
mam, I can understand, that bein' th' way all professors does 
these days, but 't is not human t' spend time givin' a flea a 
college education. I understand th' feelin' that makes a 
man educate a horse. Yes, Missus Muldoon! If th' edu- 
cated horse or th' educated pig got loose would they be easy 
to find again, or would they not, mam ? And if the Professor 
come t' have a grrand love for th' flea he has raised by hand, 
and th' flea run off from him, would th' educated flea be 
easy t' find? Th' horse and th' pig is animals that is not 
easy to conceal themselves, Missus Muldoon, but th' flea is 
harrd to find, an' when ye have found him he is harrd to put 
your thumb on. I 'm thinkin' the reason th' Professor is 
so down is that he has lost th' flea of his hearrt. If I be 
not mistaken, Missus Muldoon, th' Professor's educated flea 
spent last night with Mike Flannery. 'T is in me mind that 
th' Professor has a whole college of thim educated insects, 
an' that he do be lettin' thim have a vacation. Or mebby 
the class of 1907 is graduated and turned loose from the 
university, an' I have no wish t' speak disrespect of thim as 
is educated; but the conversation of a gang of Frinch edu- 
cated fleas is annoyin' t' a man that wants t' sleep." 

" I will speak t' th' Professor, and remonstrate with him," 
answered Mrs. Muldoon. 

It was late Sunday evening. The upper hall was dark, 
and Flannery stole softly down the hall in his socks and 
pushed open the Professor's door. He drew from his pocket 



122 SELECTED READINGS 

an insect-powder gun, and fired it. There was no doubt in 
the Professor's mind. He was being robbed. He seized a 
pistol and fired. The bullet whizzed over Mike's head, and 
before the Professor could fire a second time Flannery rose 
and turned and, with a true aim, shot the Professor ! Shot 
him full in the face with the insect powder, and before the 
blinded man could recover his breath, Flannery had him by 
the collar and had jerked him to the head of the stairs. It 
is true; he kicked him downstairs. 

That night the Professor did not sleep in Westcote, but 
the next afternoon he appeared at Mrs. Muldoon's supported 
by Monsieur Jules. 

" For the keek, Madame Muldoon, I care not. I have been 
keek before. The keek by one gentleman, him I resent, him 
I revenge ; the keek by the base, him I scorn ! I let the keek 
go, Madame Muldoon. Of the keek I say not at all, but the 
Sea! Ah, the poor flea! Excuse the weep, Madame Mul- 
doon ! For the flea — I have the revenge ! How you say it ? 
I will be to have the revenge. I would to be the revenge hav- 
ing. The revenge to having will I be. Him will I have, that 
revenge business ! For why I bring the educate flea to these 
United States? Is it that they should be deathed? Is it 
that a Flannery should make them dead with a — with such 
a thing like a pop gun? Is it for those things I educate, I 
teach, I culture, I love, I cherish those flea ? Is it for those 
things I give up wife and patrie, and immigrate myself out 
of dear France? No, my madame! Ah, I am one heart- 
busted!" 

"Ah, now Professor," said Mrs. Muldoon, soothingly, 
" don't bawl annymore. There is sure no use bawlin' over 
spilt milk. If they be dead, they be dead. I would n't cry 
over a million dead fleas." 

" The American flea — no ! " said the Professor, haughtily. 
" The Irish flea — no ! The flea au naturel — no ! But the 
educate flea of la belle France? The flea I love, and teach, 
and make like a sister, a sweetheart to me? The flea that 
have act up in front of the crowned heads of Spain; that 
have travel on the ocean ; that have travel on the land ? Ah, 
Madame Muldoon, it is no common bunch of flea ! Of my 
busted feelings what will I say ? Nothings ! Of my banged- 
up heart, what will I say ? Nothings ! But for those dead 
flea, those poor dead flea, so innocents, so harmless, so 
much money worth — for those must Monsieur Flannery 



PROSE SELECTIONS 123 

compensate. One dollar per each educate flea must he pay, 
that Flannery ! It is the ultimatum ! I come Sunday at past 
half one on the clock. That Flannery will the money ready 
have, or the law will be on him. It is sufficient ! " 

"Thief of th' worrld!" exclaimed Flannery, when Mrs. 
Muldoon told him the demand the Professor had made. 
" Sure, I have put me foot in it this time, Missus Muldoon, 
for kill thim I did, and pay for thim I must." 

But the more Flannery thought about having to pay out 
one hundred dollars for one hundred dead insects the less he 
liked it. It could not be denied that one dollar was a reason- 
able price for a flea that had a good education. A man could 
hardly be expected to take a raw country flea, as you might 
say, and educate it, and give it graces and teach it dancing 
and all the accomplishments, for less than a dollar. He in- 
quired diligently, seeking to learn the market value of edu- 
cated fleas. He learned that the government of the United 
States, in Congress assembled, had recognized that insects 
have a value, for he found in the list of customs duties this : 
— " Insects, not crude, a quarter-cent per pound and 10 per 
cent, ad valorem." 

He was ready to meet the Professor. 

" Good day to yez," he said cheerfully in the little parlor, 
where he found the Professor sitting, flanked by two fellow- 
countrymen. "I have come t' pay ye th' hunderd dollars 
Missus Muldoon was tellin' me about. I am glad ye spoke 
about it, for 't is always a pleasure to Mike Flannery to pay 
his honest debts, and I might not have thought of it if ye had 
not mentioned it. I was thinkin' thim was nawthin' but 
common ignorant fleas, Professor/' 

" Ah, no ! The very educate flea ! The flea of wisdom ! 
The very teached flea ! The truly French flea ! From Paris 
herself. The genuine. The import flea." 

" An' t' think of a flea bein' worth a dollar ! Thim can't 
be crude fleas at sich a price, Professor." 

"No! Certain, no!" 

" Not crude, an' imported by th' Professor ! 'T is odd I 
should have seen a refirince f them very things this very 
day, Professor. 'T is in this book here. ' Insects, not crude, 
one-quarter cent per pound and tin cint ad valorum.' I 
dunno, but 't is a wonderful thing th' tariff is. Who would 
be thinkin' tin years ago the Professor Jocolino would be 
comin' t' Ameriky with one hundred fleas, not crude, in his 



124 SELECTED READINGS 

dress-suit portmanteau? But th' Congress was th' boy f 
think of everything. ' No free fleas ! ' says they. ' Look at 
th' poor American flea, crude, an' uneducated, an' see th' 
struggle it has, competin' with th' flea of Europe, Asia, an' 
Africa. Down with the furrin flea,' says Congress, ( pro- 
tect th' poor American insect. One-quarter cent per pound 
an' tin cint ad valorum for th' flea of Europe ! That 's 
what Congress says," said Flannery, glaring at the Profes- 
sor, " but up jumps the Sinator from Calif orny. ' Stop ! ' 
he says, ' wait ! 'T is all right enough for the East t' rule 
out the flea, but th' Californian loves th' flea like a brother. 
We want free fleas.' Then up jumps th' Sinator from New 
York. 'I don't object t' th' plain or crude flea comin' in 
free,' says he, ' for there be need of thim, as me frind from 
the West says. What amusement would the dogs of the 
nation have but for th' flea ? ' says he. ' But I 'm thinkin' 
of the sivinty-three theaytres on an' off Broadway,' says he. 
' Shall th' amusemint industry of th' metropolis suffer from 
th' incomin' of th' millions of educated an' trained fleas of 
Europe? Shall Shakespeare an' Belasco an' Shaw be put 
out of business by th' high-toned flea theaytres of Europe? 
No ! ' says he. ( I move to amend th' tariff of th' United 
States t' read that th' duty on insects, not crude, be one 
fourth of a cent per pound an' tin per cint ad valorum,' says 
he, ' which will give the dog all th' crude fleas he wants, an' 
yit shut out th' educated flea from compytition with grand 
opera an' Barnum's circus.' An' so 't was voted," concluded 
Mike Flannery. 

"Be asy, there's no hurry. I'm waitin' for a frind of 
mine, an' th' frind I 'm lookin' for anny minute now is a 
fine expert on th' subject of th' tariff himself. O'Halloran 
is th' name of him as is second deputy assistant collector of 
evidence of fraud an' smugglin' in th' revenue service of th' 
United States. 'T was a mere matter of doubt in me mind. 
I was thinkin' mebby one dollar was not enough t' pay for 
a flea, not crude, so I asks O'Halloran. ' 'T will be easy t' 
settle that,' says O'Halloran, ' for th' value of thim will be 
set down in th' books of th' United States, at th' time whin 
th' Professor paid duty on thim.' ' But mebby th' Professor 
paid no duty on thim.' ' Make no doubt of that,' says O'Hal- 
loran, ' for unless th' Professor was a fool he would pay duty 
like a man, for th' penalty is fine an' imprisonmint,' says 
O'Halloran, an' I make no doubt he paid it." 



PROSE SELECTIONS 125 

Elannery stopped and listened. 

"Is that th' train from th' city I hear? O'Halloran will 
sure be on it." 

The Professor arose. " Mori Dieu! I have lost the most 
valued thing, the picture of the dear mamma. It is lost! 
It is picked of the pocket ! Villains ! I go to the police. 
I return/' 

He did not wait for permission, but went, and that was 
the last Mike Flannery or Mrs. Muldoon ever saw of him. 

" An' f think of me a free trader every day of me born 
life," said Mike Flannery that evening to Mrs. Muldoon, 
"but I am no more. I see th' protection there is in th' 
tariff, Missus Muldoon, mam. But annyhow, I wonder what 
is ( Insects, not crude ' ? " 

Ellis Parker Butler. 

Abridged by Anna Morgan, 

UNCLE REMUS ON AN ELECTRIC CAR* 

ONE pleasant day not long ago Uncle Remus concluded 
that he would take a ride on the electric car. He had 
been engaged for some time in making up his mind. There 
was enough of mystery about the means of locomotion to 
make him somewhat skittish. In point of fact, he had his 
own private opinion, fortified by an abundant supply of 
superstition, in regard to the whole matter. Nevertheless 
he decided to make a little excursion on the car. He saw 
other people riding, and what they did he could do. 

So the old man was on hand when the car came down to 
the starting-point, where there is a wait of five minutes. He 
watched the conductor reverse the contrivance that connects 
the motor with the overhead wire, and then he got on. He 
smiled as he took his seat, but even his smile betrayed his 
anxiety. He fumbled about in his pockets until he found 
a quarter, which he proffered to the motor-man. 

" Don't be in a hurry, old man, the conductor will get 
your fare." 

" Yasser," said Uncle Remus. " On de t'er line whar dey 
got muels, I hatter gi' de money ter de driver — dat w'at 
make I han' it ter you. Dish yer ain't de same kyar. Hit 
look mighty blank out dar. I 'd feel lots better ef dey wuz a 
waggin tongue stickin' out dar, er some muels er sump'n." 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. 



126 SELECTED READINGS 

"Why, if we bad mules out there," said the motor-man, 
with a consequential air, " they would n't last five minutes. 
We 'd run over 'em. We 'd grind them into giblets." 

"Boss, is de stuff what make dish yer kyar go — is she 
de same ez dat w'at make de thunder ? " 

" The very same." 

" Ain't you skeered ? " 

" Naw! So long as it don't singe the hair on my head, I 
ain't afraid." 

" Boss, does you keep de truck in dat ar churn dar ? " in- 
dicating the brass cylinder containing the machinery for 
turning on and shutting off the electric current. 

Something in Uncle Remus's tone — some suggestion of 
unusual politeness and affability — caused the motor-man 
to look at him more closely, and the look was followed by a 
pleasant smile, which was at once a recognition of and a 
tribute to the old negro's attitude of respectful anxiety. 

" Yes," said the motor-man, " we keep it in here," touch- 
ing the cylinder with his foot, " and when we want any we 
just turn it on." 

" Same like you draw 'simmon beer out ? n a bar 5 ! ? " 

"Yes, somewhat similarly." 

" Sometimes de beer got sech a head on 'er dat she '11 fly 
out en flow all over you. Do dat truck do dat away ? " 

" It ain't never done it yet, and when it does, I want to 
be plumb away from here." 

" Ef it 's de same kinder truck what busts aloose in de 
elements," said Uncle Remus, " dey must be enough un it in 
dat churn dar ter make thunder endurin' a whole Summer." 

The motor-man made no reply to this. In response to a 
signal from the conductor, he struck the gong sharply with 
his foot, causing Uncle Remus to dodge as if he had been 
shot at, turned on the current, and started the car. A negro 
girl sitting opposite Uncle Remus put a corner of her shawl 
in her mouth and tittered. The old man turned on her 
fiercely and exclaimed: 

" Whar yo' manners, gal ? Is dat de way yo' mammy l'arn 
you — come gigglin' in company ? " 

" De Lord knows I ain't doin' nothin'," said the girl, twist- 
ing herself around on the seat. " I des settin' here ten'in to 
my own business. I wan't sayin' a blessed word to nobody." 

" Who you grinnin' an' gigglin' at, den ? " asked Uncle 
Remus, severely. " You '11 be a-gwine on dat away some er 



PROSE SELECTIONS 127 

deze yer odd-come-shorts, an' you'll break yo' puckerin'- 
string. Den what yon gwine ter do ? " 

"Mister," said the girl, turning to the conductor, "I 
wish you'd please, sir, make dis colored man lemme 'lone. 
I ain't doin' a blessed thing to him." 

" Fare ! " exclaimed the conductor. He spoke so loudly 
and so unexpectedly that Uncle Eemus dodged again, and 
this time he flung his right arm above his head as if to de- 
fend himself. This gave the angry girl the opportunity she 
wanted. 

"Des look at dat ole man!" she cried. "I b'lieve he 
goin' crazy." Then she began to laugh again. Even the 
conductor smiled, and Uncle Eemus, perceiving this, smiled 
himself, but somewhat grimly. 

As the conductor was giving him his change, a peculiar 
groaning sound issued from the motor underneath the car. 

"Boss, wharbouts is all dat zoonin? Hit soun' like de 
win' blowin' thoo a knot-hole." 

" It 's the current," said the conductor. 

" Yasser ! " exclaimed Uncle Eemus. " Dat what I 'low'd 
hit wuz. Hit bawlin' down dar like a steer calf lef out in 
de rain. She ain't gwine ter bus' loose en far up nothin', 
is she, boss ? " 

" Not right now, I reckon," replied the conductor. 

This was very unsatisfactory to the old negro, particularly 
as the zooning and groaning sound continued to grow louder. 
He looked out of the window, first on one side and then on 
the other, and then rose and seized the handstrap and gave 
it a jerk. Seeing that the car kept on, Uncle Eemus gave 
the strap a more violent tug, and then another and another. 

" Ef she 's a-runnin' away," he exclaimed, " des say de 
word en I '11 far up de flo', but I '11 git out 'n here." 

Seeing the old man's predicament, the conductor pulled 
the bell, and the car stopped. 

" Dat what make I say what I does," exclaimed Uncle 
Eemus, with some show of indignation, as he shuffled to- 
ward the door. " I 'm gwine ter tell you all good-bye. You 
kin set dar en listen at de interruptions gwine on in de 
intruls er dish yer kyar, but I 'm gwine, I am. I done f oun' 
out long ergo dat no 'spectable nigger ain't got no business 
gwine whar white folks fear'ed to resk der muels. I wish 
you mighty well ! " 

Joel Chandler Harris. 



128 SELECTED READINGS 



A SPEECH OF LINCOLN'S* 

[The following is an impromptu address delivered by Abraham 
Lincoln to a caucus of his personal and political friends in Springfield, 
Illinois, in the month of June, 1858. 

To that conference of friends whom he trusted implicitly Lincoln 
submitted the question, whether or not he should make his famous 
speech in which he declares that 'fa house divided against itself 
cannot stand."] 

MY dear Friends : The time has come when these senti- 
ments should be uttered; and if it is decreed that I 
shall go down because of this speech, then let me go down 
linked to the truth — let me die in the advocacy of what is 
just and right. 

In taking this position, I do not suspect that any one of 
you disagrees with me as to the doctrine which I will an- 
nounce in that speech; for I am sure you would all like to 
see me defeat Douglas. It may be inexpedient for me to 
announce such principles at this time, but I have given the 
subject-matter the most patient, honest, and intelligent 
thought that I am able to command, because I have felt at 
times, and now feel, that we are standing on the advanced 
line of a political campaign which in its results will be of 
more importance than any political event that will occur 
during the nineteenth century. I regret that my friend 
Herndon is the only man among you who coincides with my 
views and purposes in the propriety of making such a speech 
to the public as I have indicated to you; but I have deter- 
mined in my own mind to make that speech, and in arriv- 
ing at this determination I cheerfully admit to you that I 
am moved to this purpose by the noble sentiments expressed 
in those beautiful lines of William Cullen Bryant in his 
poem on " The Battlefield/' where he says : 

" A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year; 
A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front and flank and rear. 

" Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
And blench not at thy chosen lot; 
The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sage may frown, — yet faint thou not. 

* By permission of Mr. William Jayne. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 129 

" Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 
For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
The victory of endurance born, 

" Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again, — • 
The eternal years of God are hers; 
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 
And dies among his worshippers. 

" Yea, though thou lie upon the dust 

When they who helped thee flee in fear, 
Die full of hope and manly trust 
Like those who fell in battle here ! 

" Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand thy standard wave, 
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave." 

I am aware that many of our friends, and all of our politi- 
cal enemies, will say, like Scipio, I am "carrying the war 
into Africa " ; but that is an incident of politics which none 
of us can help, but it is an incident which in the long run will 
be forgotten and ignored. 

We all believe that every human being, whatever may be 
his color, is born free, and that every human soul has an 
inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happi- 
ness. The Apostle Paul said, " The just shall live by faith." 
This doctrine, laid down by Saint Paul, was taken up by 
the greatest reformer of the Christian era, Martin Luther, 
and was adhered to with a vigor and fidelity never surpassed, 
until it won a supreme victory, the benefits and advantages 
of which we are enjoying to-day. 

I will lay down these propositions in the speech I propose 
to make, and risk the chance of winning a seat in the United 
States Senate, because I believe that the propositions are 
true and that ultimately we shall live to see, as Bryant says, 
" the victory of endurance born." 

[This was the closing incident of the caucus of Lincoln's friends to 
consider whether or not he should make his proposed speech. It was 
probably that speech which enabled Douglas to win the senatorship, 
but it was one of the great things that Lincoln did which placed him 
in the Valhalla of the Immortals. It warrants us in saying : 
"Thou art Freedom's now, and fame's; 
One of the few immortal names 
That were not born to die."] 



130 SELECTED READINGS 

SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 

GODLINESS WITH CONTENTMENT 
1 Timothy 

BUT godliness with contentment is great gain. For we 
brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we 
can carry nothing out. And having food and raiment, let us 
be therewith content. But they that will be rich fall into 
temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful 
lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. For 
the love of money is the root of all evil : which while some 
coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced 
themselves through with many sorrows. But thou, man of 
God, flee these things ; and follow after righteousness, godli- 
ness, faith, love, patience, meekness. Fight the good fight of 
faith, lay hold on eternal life, whereunto thou art also called, 
and hast professed a good profession before many witnesses. 

REMEMBER THY CREATOR 

ECCLESIASTES 

Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while 
the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou 
shalt say, I have no pleasure in them ; while the sun, or the 
light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the 
clouds return after the rain: ... or ever the silver cord be 
loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken 
at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then 
shall the dust return to the earth as it was : and the spirit 
shall return unto God who gave it. 

THE TONGUE 

St. James 

For in many things we offend all. If any man offend not 
in word, the same is a perfect man, and able also to bridle the 
whole body. Behold, we put bits in the horses' mouths, that 
they may obey us; and we turn about their whole body. 



PROSE SELECTIONS 131 

Behold also the ships, which though they be so great, and are 
driven of fierce winds, yet are they turned about with a very 
small helm, whithersoever the governor listeth. Even so the 
tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. Behold, 
how great a matter a little fire kindleth ! 

And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity: so is the 
tongue among our members, that it defileth the whole body, 
and setteth on fire the course of nature ; and it is set on fire 
of hell. For every kind of beasts, and of birds, and of ser- 
pents, and of things in the sea, is tamed, and hath been tamed 
of mankind: but the tongue can no man tame; it is an 
unruly evil, full of deadly poison. 



CHAEITY 
St. Paul 

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels 
and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a 
tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, 
and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge ; and though 
I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have 
not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods 
to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, 
and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. 

Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; 
charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave 
itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, 
thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in 
the truth ; beareth all things, belie veth all things, hopeth all 
things, endureth all things. 

Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, 
they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; 
whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we 
know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which 
is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done 
away. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood 
as a child, I thought as a child : but when I became a man 
I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, 
darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but 
then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth 
faith, hope, charity, these three ; but the greatest of these is 
charity. 



132 SELECTED READINGS 

BE NOT DECEIVED 
St. Paul 

Be not deceived; . . . for whatsoever a man soweth, that 
shall he also reap. For he that soweth to his flesh shall of the 
flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the Spirit shall 
of the Spirit reap life everlasting. And let us not be weary- 
in well doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint 
not. 

THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM 
David 

The Lord is my shepherd ; I shall not want. 

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures : 

He leadeth me beside the still waters. 

He restoreth my soul : 

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's 
sake. 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of 
death, I will fear no evil : for thou art with me ; 

Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine 
enemies : 

Thou anointest my head with oil : my cup runneth over. 

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of 
my life : 

And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. 

THE BEATITUDES 

St. Matthew 

Blessed are the poor in spirit : for theirs is the kingdom 
of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn : for they shall be 
comforted. Blessed are the meek : for they shall inherit the 
earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after 
righteousness : for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merci- 
ful : for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in 
heart: for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers: 
for they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are they 
which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is 



PROSE SELECTIONS 133 

the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye, when men shall 
revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of 
evil against you falsely, for my sake. Eejoice, and be ex- 
ceeding glad : for great is your reward in heaven : for so per- 
secuted they the prophets which were before you. 



II 

MONOLOGUES 



II — MONOLOGUES 



HER HUSBAND'S DINNER PARTY* 

(Mrs. John Trenton, the typical commuter, laden witU 
bundles, approaches the train-starter in the station. Mrs, 
Trenton speaks.) 

WHAT track is the 5 :20 on, guard? The farther one — 
the farthest track ? Why, when did they change it ? 
It always used to go out right here! Only one minute to 
make it in ? Well, my land ! why did n't you say so ? 
(She pushes a mere man aside and makes a dash for her 
train.) 
Look out, man, I want to make that 5:20! What? I 
dropped a letter? Why, no I didn't, did I? Well, I can't 
wait to get it — I 've got to get that train ! 

(She arrives at the gate to find it closed.) 
Is that the 5 :20 just pulling out? Well, stop it — stop it, 
I 've got to get on it ! 

(She tries to get through the gate.) 
Take your hands off me, sir ! Break my neck ? Well, it 's 
my own neck, is n't it ? Look at that train ! And I have a 
dinner-party at seven o'clock, for my husband's friends ! A 
what ? A 5 : 22 ? Well, why did n't you say so ? Where does 
it go out? Way over there? 

(She rushes back to the train-starter.) 
Guard, why did n't you tell me there was a train at 5:22? 
I did n't ask you? I told you I had to get the 5 :20 and you 
saw me miss it, so — what — going ? Wait — wait a minute 
— conductor — wait ! 

(She pursues the train down the track and is lugged aboard 
by the conductor, bag and baggage. She seats herself 
breathlessly beside a woman, placing the bundles in 
every available spot.) 
I hope I 'm not crowding you with these bundles ? That 'a 
the trouble with suburban life — every man his own delivery 
wagon ! Yes, I 'm winded ! I had to run for the train, be- 
cause my husband is having a stag dinner to-night, and there 
are a thousand things for me to see about. 

* Written especially for this collection* 



138 SELECTED READINGS 

I do hope the second girl will remember the right number 
of forks, and the right temperature for the wine. The last 
dinner I gave I had a butler in for the occasion. I never 
supposed it was necessary to give a real butler instructions in 
serving, but would you believe it, when he got to Senator 
Black, the guest of honor, he tipped the champagne bottle 
over the Senator's glass and said in a loud whisper, " Say 
when ! " I nearly died of mortification, but my husband just 
roared right out and everybody else joined in, but I made up 
my mind no more extra-guaranteed butlers for me, so we just 
have a plain second girl and waitress now, and she does get 
so flustered. 

Why, the other day — Tuesday — no, it was Wednesday — 
Wednesday of last week, I had the ladies of my Bridge Club 
in to lunch, and Maggie got so flustered that she slipped on 
the newly polished floor and spilled a whole plate of rice soup 
over one of the ladies' hair ! Yes, it was awful, rice is so mean 
to get out of your hair. Of course, she took off all her top 
hair and took it home in a paper, but even then some of the 
rice was glued right to her scalp ! 

(The conductor interrupts her to get her ticket.) 

To Winnetka? Why, of course it is to Winnetka, that's 
where I'm going. This is an express to Lake Forest — 
does n't stop ? Well, but — it 's got to stop, I 've got to get 
off ; I don't care if it is a special, I 've got a dinner at seven 
o'clock for my husband's friends, and I 've got to get to 
Winnetka by 6:20! You can't? Why can't you? Can't you 
get the engineer to do it as a special favor ? Tell him I am 
Mrs. John Trenton, of Winnetka, and my husband will send 
him a box of cigars to-morrow, if he will ! 

But I can't make it from Lake Forest in time. There are 
so few trains going south at this time in the evening, and my 
dinner is at seven! I don't suppose you can help it, but 
that 's no comfort to me ! 

(She turns to her neighbor.) 

What would you do, if you were me? You'd stay right 
on, would you ? Well, if they won't stop, I suppose I '11 have 
to. I never could drop off, with all these bundles, could I ? 
I just had to bring out some things for the dinner — 
Roquefort cheese — and — you did — you smelled it? Well, 
my husband is so particular about the cheese and our grocer 
can't suit him, so I had to get it in town. He's so fond of 
it — no, not the grocer — my husband. My father was, too. 



MONOLOGUES 139 

I remember once my father brought out some especially fine 
Roquefort for a dinner-party, and we had an old negro ser- 
vant who was waiting on the table. When the coffee was 
brought in, my father asked him where the cheese was, and 
old Robert said : " Fo' de land's sake, yo' did n't spec' me to 
put dat cheese on de table? Why — I f rowed it in de ash 
heap — dat cheese was no good, sah, it was a-workin' ! " 

Dear me, it is a long ride out to Lake Forest, is n't it ? I 
always carry a book to read, it is so improving I think, but 
1 forgot it to-day. I never speak to any one on the trains, 
but, of course, you were so nice about my bundles and advis- 
ing me, and all. " The Shuttle " ? No, I have n't. Is that 
so ? I must get it. I 've been reading " Alice for Short " for 
ten or eleven months, and I 'm nearly half through, so I must 
look up something new. 

(Conductor again interrupts.) 

Oh, the next is Lake Forest? Two minutes to get on the 
south-bound ? Dear me, that is a close call. I 'm glad to 
have met you — Mrs. — a — a — I hope I '11 see you again. 
. . . Yes, yes, conductor, I 'm coming. 
(Conductor transfers her, bag and baggage, to the south- 
bound, and as it pulls out, Mrs. Trenton settles herself 
with a sigh.) 

I '11 have to pay my fare, conductor. When do we get to 
Winnetka? An express! First stop Chicago? Do you mean 
to tell me — why didn't that other conductor find out — 
you 've got to let me off at Winnetka, or I '11 jump and sue 
the Company for damages ! 

Don't get excited ? Well, would n't you get excited if the 
starter put you on an express to Lake Forest, when my ticket 
read to Winnetka and now that other man — he had a mean 
eye — I never trust a man with a green eye — he has put me 
on an express back to Chicago! But I tell you I have a 
dinner at seven o'clock for my husband's friends — What, 
,7:15 now? 

(She goes into hysterics, during which conductor tries to 
soothe her. Innocent bystander aslcs what is the trouble, 
and conductor mutters, " Lunatic, I guess.") 

Lunatic ? Did you say lunatic ? I call upon all the pas- 
sengers in this car to give me their names and addresses as 
witnesses of how this man has insulted me ! 
(To anxious passenger.) 

No, I 'm not crazy. I 've got to get off at Winnetka — I 



140 SELECTED READINGS 

belong there, that 's my home, and I 've got a dinner party 
at — You say you slow up at Glencoe ? Well, I '11 risk it, 
and take the electric down. I don't know — you '11 just have 
to throw them off after me — all but the cheese — you hold 
on to that until I light, and I '11 catch it. Yes, you let me 
know in time and I '11 have everything ready to jump. 
(Passenger continues to ask questions.) 
Of course, I did n't know it was an express to Lake Forest 
— how should I ? I did n't tell the starter where I was going, 
but he ought to know me by this time, all the hundreds of 
times I go in and out on these trains. 

(Conductor summons her to the fatal leap.) 
All right, conductor, now take the bundles, and throw 
them in this order — this one first, then this — yes, all right, 
I 'm coming. 

(Train slows down, and Mrs. Trenton drops off in a shower 
of bundles, stumbling forward on all fours, dislocating 
her hat and splitting her gloves. The cheese hits her in 
the left ear.) 
That is the last straw ! I shall add that in my suit — that 
the conductor hit me in the ear with a cheese ! 
(She hears electric car tooting, and scrambles to her feet, 
collects what bundles she can, and gets aboard of elec- 
trie, which slows down, but does not stop. Conductor 
comes in from front platform, stares at apparition, and 
explains that this is an empty running to Evanston for 
repairs.) 
I c — c — can't bear any more ! I have to g — g — get off 
at Winnetka — can't you let me off there ? I have a dinner- 
party — please — please — 

(Sobs interrupt her tale, and when the conductor promises to 
let her off at WinnetTca, she sobs on quietly, while he 
tells the gripman about the " funny old drunk " inside. 
At Winnetka she descends, and runs home. On enter- 
ing, she shouts for her husband. A maid appears, 
alarmed at the sight that greets her eye.) 
Where is Mr. Trenton ? Is the dinner over ? Are the guests 
all here? W-h-a-t? He called up at five o'clock to say he 
would have the party in town ? 

(With an agonized groan, Mrs. John Trenton collapsed into 
a comatose condition.) 

Marjorie Benton Cooke. 



MONOLOGUES 141 



HER FIRST CALL ON THE BUTCHER* 

[She enters, shakes shirt free of sawdust, and wrinkles nose 
in disgust. She moves uncertainly, finally points at one 
man.} 

YOU, if you please. Good-morning. I want to look at 
something for dinner. . . . Oh, I don't know what I 
want — just show me what you have. ... Of course I can't 
tell what I want until I see what you have, and even then it 's 
very hard. . . . Yes, just us two. . . . Well, the platter we 
use ordinarily for dinner — I don't use the best set for every 
day, but this one is really very pretty, white with little pink 
roses — Well, it 's about so long and so wide, and I would 
like something to fill it nicely. ... I can't think of one 
thing. What are these? . . . Chops? Well, I never saw 
chops growing in bunches before. ... I don't care — when 
I was at home we often had chops, but they weren't like 
that, but sort of one and one, with little bits of parsley around 
them. . . . You cut them up? Oh — oh — oh — I sup- 
pose different butchers have different ways. . . . 

I don't think I care for that kind of chops, anyway — I 
mean those with the little tails. I like the ones with the long, 
thin bones. . . . French chops? Oh, no, they weren't im- 
ported — oh, no, because the cook used to go out any time and 
get them. . . . Oh — oh — oh — you do? . . . They are? 
... I see. ... I '11 take some. ... How many ? — oh — I 
er — Why, about as many as you usually sell. . . . Well, 
let me see — Mr. Dodd generally eats about a dozen oysters 
at a time — I don't mean all at once, you know — so for 
both of us I think about two dozen. . . . Oh, I can send 
for more if that is n't enough. 

You are quite sure you have the best — best — description 
of chops? . . . Well, you see, our cook, Lillian — such an 
odd name for an Irish cook — I mean our cook at home be- 
fore I was married — she wanted me to employ the same 
butcher we had then, but as I told mamma then, I thought it 
was more a matter of sentiment with Lillian than meat. She 
was the most disobliging girl except when it came to buying 
chops, and she was always only too ready to run out after 
them. One afternoon I was just going up the steps — I had 
been to tea, I think — anyway, I know I 'd had an awfully 

* Stage and platform rights reserved by the author. 



142 SELECTED READINGS 

stupid time. Well, there was Lillian at the area gate talking 
to a man who had " chops " written all over him. So when 
Lillian said — [ Turns.] I 'm in great haste myself, madam. 
[To butcher.'] You will kindly finish waiting on me before 
you attend to any one else. Where did I leave off ? Oh, yes. 
He was a little, thick-set man with black, curly hair and mus- 
tache. Do you know him? . . . Oh, I thought probably all 
butchers knew one another. . . . 

I would like to look at some chickens, please. . . . Why, 
it hasn't any feathers! ... It did? . . . You have? . . . 
It was? ... Oh — oh — oh. I don't like the color — it 
seems very yellow. . . . Because it 's fat ? Well, I don't want 
a fat chicken — neither Mr. Dodd nor myself eat a bit of fat. 
... Oh — oh — oh. I can't help it — I don't like the color 
of that chicken — you'll pardon my saying so, but it does 
look very bilious. Why, what are you breaking its bones for ? 
I would n't take it now under any circumstances. . . . Per- 
haps, but Mr. Dodd wouldn't like me to buy a damaged 
chicken. There, I like those chickens hanging up. . . . No, 
no, not that one — farther along — no — yes, yes, that 's it 

— the blue-looking one with the large face. ... I don't care, 
I like its looks much better than the other one. Now, let me 
see — there was something I wanted to tell you about that 
chicken — wait a minute — I '11 have it directly — I 've been 
taking a course of memory lessons. M — m — m — some- 
thing about a boat — a tiller, a centre-board, a sheet, a sail, a 
mainsail — that 's almost it — a ji — ji — a jib — that 's it 

— giblets ! Be sure to send the giblets. 

Where 's my list ? I thought I put it in my bag, but — 
No, I can't find it. Is n't that exasperating ! I remember 
making it out, and then I laid a little sample of white silk 
with a black figure in it on the desk — yes, I remember per- 
fectly. Oh, yes, and then the sample or the list — you see, 
the sample with the thin, black figure really looked like the 
list. Well, one or the other must have fallen on the floor, 
for I remember, too, my little dog chewing something as I 
came out — yes, that must have been it. . . . It really 
does n't matter specially. 

Mr. Dodd says always have plenty of beef, so you might 
send a few steaks. . . . What? Porter-house or sirloin? I 

— er — I don't think we care for any of those fancy ones — 
just some plain steaks will do. 

Now please send the things very early this morning, 



MONOLOGUES 143 

because we dine at seven, and Mr. Dodd does n't like to wait. 
. . . Yes, that 's all, I think — that 's all — Why, the idea — ■ 
it 's Friday, and our girl does n't eat a bit of meat on Friday 
— you will have to take all of those things back. Just send 
around a few nice fishes, and be sure and send their giblets ! 
Good-morning. 

May Isabel Fisk. 



BUYING HER HUSBAND A CHRISTMAS 
PRESENT * 

WHY howdy, Mis' Blakes — Howdy, Mis' Phemie — 
Howdy, all. I see yo' sto'e is fillin' up early. Great 
minds run in the same channel, partic'larly on Christmas 
Eve. 

My ole man started off this mornin' befo' day an' soon ez 
he got ou' o' sight I struck out fo' Washington, an' here I 
am. He thinks I 'm home seedin' raisins. He was out by 
starlight this mornin' with the big wagon, an' of co'se I know 
what that means. 'E 's gone fo' my Christmus gif an' I 'm 
put to it to know what tremenjus thing he's layin' out to 
fetch me — thet takes a cotton wagon to haul it. Of co'se 
I imagine everything, from a guyaskutus down. I always did 
like to get things too big fo' my stockin'. What yo' say, Mis' 
Blakes ? Do I hang up my stockin' ? Well I reckon I had n't 
quit when I got married, an' I think that's a poor time to 
stop, don't you? 

What do you think would be the nicest to give him, Mr. 
Lawson — this silver card-basket, or that Cupid vase, or — 

Ye need n't to wink. I seen you, Mis' Blakes. Ef I was 
to pick out a half-dozen socks like them you're buyin' fer 
Mr. Blakes, how much fun do you suppose we 'd have out of 
it ? Not much. I 'd jest ez lief 'twas n't Christmus, — an' 
so would he — though they do say his first wife give him a 
bolt of domestic once-t for Christmus, an' made it up into 
night shirts an' things fer him durin' the year. Think of 
it ! No, I 'm goin' to git him something that 's got some 
git-up to it, an' — an' it '11 be either — that — Cupid vase — 
or lordy — Mr. Lawson, don't fetch out that swingin' ice 
pitcher. I glimpsed it quick as I come in the door, an', says 
I, ' Git thee behind me, Satin,' an' turned my back on it 

* From "Moriah's MourninQ" Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothers. 



144 SELECTED READINGS 

immejiate. But of co'se I ca'cultated to git you to fetch it 
out jes' for me to look at, after I 'd selected his present. 

Ain't it a beauty ? Seems to me they could n't be a more 
suitable present for a man — ef he did n't hate 'em so. No, 
Mis' Blakes, it ain't only that he don't never drink ice water. 
I would n't mind a little thing like that. How much is them 
wilier rockers, Mr. Lawson? I declare that one favors my 
old man ez it sets there, even without him in it. Mne dol- 
lars? That's a good deal for a pants-tearin' chair, seems 
to me which them wilier rockers is, every last one of 'em, 
an' I 'm a mighty poor hand to darn. Jest let me lay my 
stiches in colors, in the shape of a flower, an' I can darn ez 
well as the next one, but I despise to fill up holes jest to be a 
fillin'. Yes, ez as you say, them silver-mounted brierwood 
pipes is mighty pretty, but he smokes so much ez it is, I don't 
know ez I want to encourage him. Besides, it seems a waste 
o' money to buy a Christmus gif thet a person has to lay 
aside when company comes in, an' a silver-mounted pipe 
ain't no politer to smoke in the presence of ladies than a 
corncob is. An' ez for when we 're by ourselves — shucks ! 

Ef you don't mind, Mr. Lawson, I '11 stroll around through 
the sto'e an' see what you 've got while you wait on some o' 
them thet know their own minds. I know mine well enough. 
What I want is that swingin' ice pitcher, an' my judgment 
tells me thet they ain't a more suitable present in yo' sto'e 
for a man. That 's a mighty fine saddle blanket, indeed it is. 
He was talkin' about a saddle blanket the other day. But 
that 's a thing a person could pick up almost any day, a sad- 
dle blanket is. An' ice pitcher now — Say, Mr. Lawson, 
lemme look at that tiltin' pitcher again, please, sir. I jest 
want to see if the spout is gold lined. Yes, so it is — an' 
little holes down in the throat of it. It cert'n'y is well made, 
it cert'n'y is. I s'pose them holes is to strain out grasshop- 
pers or anything that might fall into it. . . . He's got a 
mighty keerless way o' drinkin' out o' open dippers. No 
tellin' what he '11 scoop up some day. They 'd be great safety 
for him in a pitcher like this — ef I could only make him see 
it. It would seem a sort o' awkward thing to pack out to the 
well every single time, an' he won't drink no water but what 
he draws fresh. An' I s'pose it would look sort o' silly to put 
it in here jest to drink it out again. 

Sir? Oh, yes, I saw them saddle bags hangin' up back 
there, an' they are fine, mighty fine, ez you say, an' his are 



MONOLOGUES 145 

purty near wore out, but lordy, I don't want to buy a Christ- 
mus gif thet 's hung up in the harness room haf the time. 
What 's that you say ? Won't you all ever git done a runnin' 
me about that side saddle ? I got it for his pleasure if it was 
for my use ; an' come to think about it, I 'd be jest reversin' 
the thing on the pitcher. It would be fer his use an' my 
pleasure. I wish I could see my way to buy it fer him. Both 
goblets go with it, you say, an' the slop bowl? It cert'n'y is 
handsome — it cert'n'y is. An' it's expensive — nobody 
could accuse me o' stintin' him. Wonder why they didn't 
put some polar bears on the goblets, too. They 'd 'a' had to 
be purty small bears, but they could 'a' been cubs easy. 

I don't reelly believe, Mr. Lawson, indeed I don't, thet I 
could find a more suitable present for him ef I took a month, 
an' I don't keer what he 's a-pickin' out for me this minute, 
it can't be no handsomer 'n this. Th' ain't no use — I '11 haf 
to have it for 'im. Just charge it, please ; an' now I want it 
marked. I '11 pay cash for the markin', out of my egg money, 
An' I want his full name. Have it stamped on the iceberg 
right beside the bear. " Ephraim N. Trimble." No, you 
needn't spell out the middle name. I should say not. Ef 
you knew what it was you wouldn't ask me. Why, it's 
Nebuchadnezzar. It'd use up the whole iceberg. No, jest 
write it, " Ephraim N. Trimble, from his wife Kitty." Be 
sure to put in the " Kitty," so in after years it '11 show which 
wife give it to him. Of co'se, them thet knew us both would 
know which one. Mis' Mary Jane would n't never have ap- 
proved of it in the world. Why she used to rip up her old 
crocheted tidies an' things, an' use 'em over in bastin' threads, 
so they tell me. She little dremp' who she was a savin' for, 
poor thing. She was buyin' this pitcher then, but she did n't 
know it. Go on with the inscription, Mr. Lawson. What 
have you got ? " From his wife Kitty " — what 's the matter 
with " affectionate wife " ? You say " affectionate " is a purty 
expensive word ? But " lovin' " '11 do jest ez well an' comes 
cheaper, you say. An' plain " wife " comes cheapest of all ? 
An' I don't know but what it's more suitable, anyhow — 
at his age. Of co'se you must put in the date, an' make the 
" Kitty " nice an' fancy, please. Lordy, well the deed 's done, 
an' I reckon he '11 threaten to divorce me when he sees it — 
till he reads the inscription. Better put in the " lovin'," I 
reckon, an' put it in in capitals — they don't cost no more, do 
they ? Well, good-bye, Mr. Lawson. I reckon you '11 be glad 



146 SELECTED READINGS 

to see me go. I've outstayed every last one thet was here 
when I come. Well, good-bye ! Have it marked immejiate, 
please, an' I '11 call back in an hour. Good-bye ! 

Ruth McEnery Stuart. 
Abridged by Anna Morgan. 



ABBIE'S ACCOUNTS* 

THERE is one comfort in being a married woman. Of 
course there is more than one, — a great many, — but 
one in particular, I mean, and that is — one has a right to 
some of the luxuries of married life. Now a husband is n't 
like an older sister. Of all the creatures that tyrannize over 
their kind an older sister is the worst. A husband is — well 

— rather " bossy." Alfred says I should keep accounts, now 
that I am married. I wonder where that account book is. 
1 am sure I put it under this pile of invitations to those five 
o'clock nuisances. The impudence of that Hanson woman 
with her teas. She seems to regard tea as a sort of legal ten- 
der. Where is that book? Maybe it is in that blue serge; 
or is it in the pocket of my gray cashmere ? Let me see, — 
that's up in the closet. [Going to the door, and coming 
bach.'] No, it isn't. I tore it out. It must be in one of 
those drawers in the desk. Oh ! here it is. How I love the 
smell of Russian leather. I like red leather, it 's so business- 
like. [Goes to the desk.] Now, where 's the ink? [Turns 
bottle upside down.] It 's empty. Well, never mind, here 's 
a pencil — perhaps it would be better, if I should make a 
mistake. 

I wonder if I remember my multiplication table. Let me 
see ! 7X7 used to be a horror, 7 X 7 are 49 ; 8 X 7 are 
50 — no, that's not right, 52 I guess. Let me see (counts 
on fingers) 49 — 50 — 51 — 52 — 53 — Oh, how glad I am 
I 'm married ! They did n't let us count on our fingers there 

— 49 — 50 — 51 — 52 — 53 — 54 — 55 — 56 — 57, yes, 7 
X 9 are 57. 

Now, what do I put down first. Alfred is either my Dr. or 
my Cr. Yesterday morning he gave me thirty-five dollars, 
all in fives, — he gave them to me, you see, so he 's my D-r 

— C-r — Cr., I guess, and I'm his Dr. [Writes, holds up 
booh, and looks at it.] Now, does n't that look real sweet, — 

* By permission of the author and the Century Co, 






MONOLOGUES 147 

Alfred Appleby on one page and Abbie Appleby, Dr., on the 
other? [Kisses them both.'] 

Now comes what I spent it for. I know they use only two 
pages — I heard papa talk about a trial balance, and you 
can't balance three things unless you 're a juggler. I think 
I'll tear these two pages out. No, I won't. It's only in 
pencil, I'll rub it out. [Bubs out.'] I don't wonder papa 
gets tired keeping his accounts. It must be awful to be a 
bookkeeper and get all covered with red ink. 

[Sees package.'] Oh! I forgot all about that silk I got 
for the curtains. I must look at it before I look at my ac- 
counts. I'm tired of figuring, anyway. How cheap these 
silks are nowadays! This was only 45 a yard and there's 
enough in it to make a dress. I wonder how I would look 
in it. [Throws it around her.] There, I look like a duchess 
at least. I wonder what real duchesses look like, anyway! 
Oh ! how I wish I could travel and see things. It would be 
splendid to be rich, real rich, so that you don't care how 
much money you spend, and you don't have to keep accounts. 
Oh! that reminds me, I must finish my account book. I 
promised Alfred I would have it ready for him. What a 
comfort it is that your husband is n't your father ! and how 
absurd it would be to be your own great-grandchild, or any- 
thing like that. 

Why, I thought I had done a lot. Oh! I remember, I 
rubbed it out. Yes, it was that Cr. and Dr. business that 
stopped me. After all, what difference does it make ? Alfred 
does n't care. 

Abbie Appleby, Dr. — Alfred Appleby, Cr. Then I put 
down what he gave me. He gave me — let me see — $35.00. 
It was before I bought that lace for trimming, and it cost 
$2.99 a yard, and I bought 2% yards. My ! that 's a puzzle ! 
How did we do it at school ? What a lot of money papa spent 
on my school bills, and how much good it has done me ! Let 
me see. If 2% yards of lace cost $2.99 a yard, and Alfred 
gave Abbie thirty-five dollars to start with, how much did 
Abbie have to start with ? Humph ! that 's easy enough — 
thirty-five dollars of course. After all, education is worth 
something. I suppose that's what we call logic. I think 
guessing is easier. Well, the answer is $35.00, and it goes 
down under Cr. That Alfred is my Cr. for $35.00 is plain. 
Next comes the lace. Alfred is n't Cr. for that, I know, so 
down it goes — Abbie Dr. to lace $2.99 X 2% yards. But 



148 SELECTED READINGS 

I 'm not, I can't be Dr. when I paid for them ; and the idea 
of making Alfred Cr. for several yards of lace which he 
does n't know anything about ! It 's too absurd for any use 

— I sha'n't change it anyway. How much does it make. $2 
X 2 yards is 4 — 4 what? It can't be done — You can't 
multiply dollars by yards — I am sure of that much. Why 

— Miss Gumption used to tease us dreadfully about that. 
She used to say — 'two oranges multiplied by two apples 
makes what ? But I must n't wander so. 

I wish I knew more about accounts. Alfred will think 
I 'm a perfect ignoramus. It 's his own fault. If he wanted 
somebody to keep his books he should have married Susan 
Brewer ; but he never could bear her — said it gave him the 
shivers to look at her. Still, it 's a good thing to be system- 
atic; but that reminds me, I wonder where my watch is. 
[Searches.] I know it fell out of my pocket when I was 
taking off my jacket. It must be on the floor. I hope it 
is n't hurt. No, none of the pearls are out. Now, what was 
it I wanted it for? Oh, yes, to wind it. I'm glad it's a 
stem-winder. Why, it must be wound — it won't go. Why, 
yes, it 's going — I guess I must have wound it some time 
or other; but it can't be so late. Yes, it's going — it's 
going. I must hurry on, or I won't have my accounts ready. 
Where was I? $2.99 X 2% yards— Oh! I never can do 
it in the world. My! it's fractions and decimals mixed. 
Oh! I wonder I didn't think of that before. Of course, 
$2.99 is practically the same as $3.00, and 2% is nearly three 
yards, so 3 X 3 are 9 yards — what a goose ! — dollars, I 
mean ; $9.00 — except what I spent for caramels and carfare 
is really all I spent. Call it ten dollars. [She writes.] 

There ! $35.00 less $10.00 is $25.00, and that is what is 
called the capital. No — that 's not the right word. I 've 
heard papa say it often and often — it 's bonus, I guess. No, 
it is n't. [Rubs it out] There, that 's better. To cash, $25.00. 

Now, where's my pocketbook? Here it is. Now, let's 
see! There, I knew she was a hateful thing, that girl at 
Brady's, — she gave me a fifty-cent piece with a hole in it. 
[Reflects.] Alfred says they take all kinds of money at the 
liquor store. I suppose they pass them off on drunken men. 
I might give it to Alfred, but what am I to do with it on my 
accounts? I can't put it down as a Dr. or Cr., for neither 
Alfred nor I have anything to do with it, and I 'm sure I 
can't put it down to that girl at Brady's. But I might, too; 



MONOLOGUES 149 

I can open sort of an account with her. [Wntfes.] Brady's 
shop girl — one plugged fifty-cent piece, and then I should 
have to open an account on the opposite page with Abbie 
Appleby, Cr., fifty cents out. 

Oh! there's the bell. It's Alfred. I remember, I bor- 
rowed his latch key ; and I have n't my accounts. No mat- 
ter. I 've made a good beginning. He won't blame his little 
wife — bless him. He didn't marry me because I was a 
good bookkeeper. 

I hear his step. I '11 go to meet him. 

The darling ! 

Tudor Jenks. 

'TWIXT CUP AND LIP 

* Z^IOME, Molly, wake up and give me some tea. Where 's 

\J Mina?" 

" She went to a luncheon with Mrs. Orme and has n't 
come in yet." 

" What 's the matter ? are you ill or only sleepy ? I 'm 
sorry I spoilt your nap." 

" Oh, don't apologize ; it was only a day dream." 

"A day dream; what have you got to dream about? I 
say, Molly, I 've been thinking a great deal about you lately. 
Why don't you get married? There's an absence of fuss 
and effort about your management that is altogether charm- 
ing and — " 

" Yes ? What is it you want ? " 

"Now, Molly, I want to see you properly appreciated, 
which can only be done by a husband. It is n't right that 
all your effort should be thrown away on a brother. Why 
don't you marry Bertram ? " 

" Oh, noble young man ! But I, too, can be generous. I '11 
never desert you ; never ! " 

"Well, the fact is, Molly — er— - 1 want to get married 
myself." 

" Oh, that's it, is it? Well, Tom, I'm sure Daisy Mur- 
chison will make you a charming wife and me a very amiable 
sister." 

" How the deuce did you know it was Daisy ? " 

" Oh, Tom, the idea of your thinking I did n't know ! You 
can't keep that sort of a tiling away from a girl, especially if 
that girl happens to be your sister." 



150 SELECTED READINGS 

" Yes, it is Daisy. She 's the sweetest woman I y ve eve? 
met. She 's almost masculine in her simple-mindedness, and 
she 's altogether so sweet and gentle and charming." 

" Oh, don't mind me." 

"Well, I declare, I had almost forgotten you were here; 
but then I always do forget when I — " 

"Oh, Tom!" 

" But why don't you get married, Molly ? Why don't you 
marry Bertram ? His family are very well off and very fond 
of you." 

" Mr. Bertram is very fond of & good dinner and as he 
generally gets that when he comes here, why, he looks upon 
me with a certain degree of favor. But we might be able to 
settle all this without Mr. Bertram's assistance. Who 
knows?" 

" Why ! How is this ? You seem to be very much in the 
light about my affairs. How is it I don't know about this ? " 

" I 've been more or less engaged for the last four years. 
Well, I may as well tell you now. You see, it was while you 
were abroad, and at the time father was so ill. He was go- 
ing abroad, but as he had no fortune, father would n't hear 
of a formal engagement and made me promise to hold no 
communication with him. Father was so ill, I could n't re- 
fuse him ; and then father died and — " 

" Do you mean that you never heard from the fellow ? " 

" Yes ; he said he would n't write until he could come for 
me." 

"Well, all I hope is that he is good enough, Molly — 
Don't make a mistake." 

" Oh, I have no fear of that. But let that pass now ; tell 
me about Daisy, Tom. Have you spoken to her yet? You 
know we meet at the Grays' to-night? " 

" No, I did n't know. No, I 've not spoken yet ; but I 'm 
as sure as a man can be. The last time I saw her was at the 
Ortens' ball, a fortnight ago, and then her mother took her 
away ten minutes too soon. Since then she has been down 
to Brighton. Ah, there's nothing that I would not do for 
her, and I really think she would do a great deal for me." 

" Yes, I really think she will marry you, Tom." 

" Now, Molly, what a speech. Well, suppose you give me 
some more tea. By the way, did I tell you that I ran up 
against an old acquaintance in Cheapside the other day? 
Yes, — Bob Maitland." 



MONOLOGUES 151 

" Is he looking well ? Is he coming to see us soon ? " 

"Well, I hardly know. Steady, dear! Don't drop that 
cup. What was I saying ? Oh, yes, Maitland. Yes, he was 
flying along at a great pace, and I stopped and asked him what 
he meant by cutting his old friends in that fashion, and he 
hurried off a lot of words about just getting back from Eu- 
rope and having an appointment, and left me in the middle 
of a word to see a man. Vernon was with me at the time, 
and he laughed and said that he had a good joke on Mait- 
land : he just got back from Europe a short time ago and the 
other day became engaged to a girl on the strength of a week's 
acquaintance. Good joke, is n't it ? " 

"Yes — " 

" By the way, Molly, I wish you would n't sit so close to 
that lamp — it makes you look almost green. Hello, 
here 's Mina. Well, little one, what kind of a time did you 
have?" 

" Oh, lovely ! You know I went to luncheon with Mrs. 
Orme, and then we went to a Miss Somebody's concert, but 
that was awful slow, a perfect bore; but who do you think 
I saw there ? — Oh, don't go, Molly, this is the most inter- 
esting part — Daisy Murchison and her betrothed : the hand- 
somest man, a perfect love, a Mr. Mat — Maitland ; yes, 
that 's it — Maitland ; and she did look so sweet and happy 
end she had on the loveliest cloak you ever saw." 

" Mina, dear, a large box came for you to-day ; it looks 
as though there might be flowers in it — " 

" Oh, goody ! Where is it? " 

" In your room." 

" Hang it all, can't you say something to a fellow ? You 
might show some sympathy, I think. How am I to meet 
that girl?" 

"Oh, Tom, how am I to meet that man?" 

Anonymous. 

WIVES IN A SOCIAL GAME* 

BIGSBY and his wife went round to the Crosbys' the other 
night to spend the evening. They had been there only 
a short time when Crosby said, " Supposing we have a game 
of euchre ? " 

* From " A Modern Reader and Speaker" by George Riddle. Copyright, 1899, 
by Herbert S. Stone & Co., Duffleld & Company, Successors. 



152 SELECTED READINGS 

Mrs. B. Oh, let 's ; I think euchre is perfectly lovely. 

C. All right ; we '11 have a game or two. 

So the cards were brought out and a table cleared for the 
game. Like most men Crosby and Bigsby liked to play cards 
as if it were a matter of life and death, but it was different 
with the women. 

Mrs. B. [Seating herself at table facing the audience, and 
waving to the others to sit also.] I like euchre because it 's 
such a sociable game. ISTow, in whist one has to give such 
close attention to the game that — 

C. Come, cut for deal ! 

Mrs. C. Hope I '11 get it. 

Mrs. B. You '11 be real mean if you do. I always like to. 
Oh, Mr. Crosby has the deal, and he 's my partner. Goodie ! 
goodie ! 

Mrs. C. You're horrid! Oh, by the way, I met May 
Griggson and her baby on the street this afternoon. She 'd 
been down getting the baby photographed. I'd never seen 
her baby before, although it 's five months old and — 

Mrs. B. I 've never seen it yet. Is it pretty ? 

Mrs. C. Well, it has May's eyes and nose to a T, but of 
course, one can't tell how such a young baby will look when — • 
Oh, are those my cards ? What 's trumps ? 

C. Hearts. 

Mrs. C. Oh, mercy ! I 've a perfectly awful hand. I hope 
my partner — 

Mr. C. Come ! come ! no talking across the table. What 
will you do ? 

Mrs. B. Oh, I pass. I have n't a single trump, and — 

Mrs. C. I 'm not much better off. But about May Grigg- 
son; they say that Tom, her husband, thinks that the sun 
rises and sets in that baby, and that May won't leave it for 
an hour, not even with her own mother, and — Oh, did you 
know that Jenny Traf t's engagement to Fred Hilton had been 
announced ? 

Mrs. B. No ! 

Mrs. C. It's so, and — Oh, is it my play? What's 
trumps ? 

Mr. C. Hearts! 

Mrs. B. Who led? 

Mr. B. Crosby. 

Mrs. B. Then I — Oh, dear, I don't know what to play. 
Let me see, I 've got to follow suit, have n't I ? I guess this 



MONOLOGUES 153 

nine-spot will do. As I was saying, Jennie and Fred were 
engaged at last and they say that the wedding 's to be right 
away for — Is n't that a new waist you have on ? 

Mrs. C. Yes — you like it? 

Mrs. B. I think it 's lovely. Here, they said two years ago 
that fancy waists were going out, and I do believe ihat they 
are worn more than ever. 

Mrs. C. Of course they are for — What ? It 's my play ! 
What 's trumps — hearts ? I thought diamonds were trumps. 
Well, it doesn't make any difference, for I haven't any. 
What led — spades ? Who played that ten-spot. I have n't 
any spades, so I guess I 'd better trump it for — Oh, my 
partner's already trumped it with his right bower and I 
threw away that good left bower. Can't I take it back? I 
can't ? We.ll, it 's real mean. Well, as I was saying, my dress- 
maker says that she made more fancy waists this season than 
ever before. 

Mrs. B. I don't doubt it. I'm having me one made of 
black chiffon over orange silk with beautiful jet passemen- 
teries and — What ! It 's my play ? Let me see — What 's 
trumps. 

Mr. B. Hearts ! 

Mrs. B. You needn't be so cross about it, Mr. Bigsby. 
What led? 

Mr. B. Diamonds. 

Mrs. B. Diamonds ! And you say that hearts are trump. 
Hearts, hearts, — I have n't any hearts nor any trumps, so 
I '11 play this club for — Yes, it 's a fine black chiffon, and 
you can't think how lovely the orange taffeta silk looks under 
it. The chiffon tones the orange down to the loveliest tint 
of pinkish yellow, and I 'm having rows and rows of fine 
tucking in front and — 

Mrs. C. I should think it would be lovely. Aren't you 
glad that those cunning and pretty little boleros have come 
in again ? Oh, it 's my play. What 's trumps ? 

Mr. C. Hearts! 

Mrs. C. Mercy! don't take my head off, if hearts are 
trumps, Jack Crosby. That 's the way with men ; they play 
cards as if their lives were at stake, and I — Oh, say, maybe 
— supposing we let Jack and George finish the game, and 
you go upstairs with me and see a new hat I 've just had sent 
home. It 's the most fetching thing I 've had for years, and 
I 'm dying to show it to you. I don't care for euchre, anyhow. 



154 SELECTED READINGS 

Mrs. B. Neither do I. Whist is my game. 

Mrs. C. Mine too. There ! [Throwing down her cards.] 
You horrid, cross men ; you can go on with the game by your- 
selves. 

Which they were glad to do, after changing the game from 
euchre to poker. 

Anonymous, 

Adapted oy Anna Morgan. 



\ 



III 

POETRY 



SHAKESPEARE 

He is above everybody of every time. No such man has been seen 
in the world; nothing so profound anywhere out of the Bible. 

Thomas Carltle. 

" Revolving years have flitted on; 
Corroding time has done its worst. 
Pilgrim and worshipper have gone 
From Avon's shrine to shrine of dust. 
But Shakespeare lives unrivalled still 
And unapproached by mortal mind, 
The giant of Parnassus hill, 
The pride and monarch of mankind." 



Ill — POETRY 



HAMLET'S INSTRUCTION TO THE PLAYERS 

Hamlet, Act III, Scene 2 

SPEAK the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, 
trippingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many 
of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. 
Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but 
use all gently ; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may 
say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a 
temperance that may give it smoothness. 0, it offends me to 
the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a 
passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the ground- 
lings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inex- 
plicable dumb-shows and noise. I could have such a fellow 
whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: 
pray you, avoid it. 

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be 
your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the 
action ; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the 
modesty of nature ; for anything so overdone is from the pur- 
pose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and 
is, to hold, as ? t were, the mirror up to nature ; to show virtue 
her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and 
body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, 
or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot 
but make the judicious grieve ; the censure of the which one 
must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. 
0, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others 
praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither 
having the accent of Christians nor the gait of Christian, 
pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have 
thought some of nature's journeymen had made men and not 
made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. 



158 SELECTED READINGS 

HAMLET'S DECLARATION OF FRIENDSHIP 

From Act III, Scene 2 
Hamlet. 

WHAT ho! Horatio! 
Horatio. Here, sweet lord, at your service. 

Hamlet. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man 
As e'er my conversation coped withal. 

Horatio. 0, my dear lord, — 

Hamlet. Nay, do not think I flatter; 

For what advancement may I hope from thee 
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits, 
To feed and clothe thee ? Why should the poor be flatter'd? 
No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, 
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee 
Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? 
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice 
And could of men distinguish, her election 
Hath sealed thee for herself ; for thou hast been 
As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, 
A man that fortune's buffets and rewards 
Hast ta'en with equal thanks : and blest are those 
Whose blood and judgement are so well commingled 
That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger 
To sound what stop she please. Give me that man 
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him 
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, 
As I do thee. 

OTHELLO'S APOLOGY 

[Othello's apology is, as he himself declares, a plain unvarnished 
tale of his wooing of Desdemona. The speech calls for great dignity, 
simplicity, and power, in both speech and manner.] 

MOST potent, grave, and reverend signiors, 
My very noble and approved good masters, 
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, 
It is most true; true, I have married her: 
The very head and front of my offending 
Hath this extent, no more. Eude am I in my speech, 
And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace; 
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, 
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used 



POETRY 159 

Their dearest action in the tented field, 

And little of this great world can I speak, 

More than pertains to feats of. broil and battle, 

And therefore little shall I grace my cause 

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, 

I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver 

Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, 

What conjuration, and what mighty magic, — - 

For such proceeding I am charg'd withal, — 

I won his daughter. 

Her father loved me ; of t invited me ; 

Still question'd me the story of my life, 

From year to year, — the battles, sieges, fortunes, 

That I have pass'd. 

I ran it through, even from my boyish days, 

To the very moment that he bade me tell it : 

Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, 

Of moving accidents by flood and field, 

Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach, 

Of being taken by the insolent foe 

And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence 

And portance in my travels' history: 

This to hear 
Would Desdemona seriously incline : 
But still the house-affairs would draw her thence ; 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She ? ld come again, and with a greedy ear 
Devour up my discourse : which I observing, 
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart 
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, 
Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
But not intentively : I did consent, 
And often did beguile her of her tears, 
When I did speak of some distressful stroke 
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, 
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : 
She swore, in faith, 't was strange, 't was passing strange, 
'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful : 
She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wished 



160 SELECTED READINGS 

That heaven had made her such a man : she thank'd me, 

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 

1 should but teach him how to tell my story, 

And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake : 

She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd ; 

And I lov'd her that she did pity them. 

This only is the witchcraft I have used. 



MERCUTIO'S DESCRIPTION OF QUEEN MAB 

Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene 4 

[These lines are the finest example in the language of a pure staccato 
movement of syllables, lightly and separately poised. Only a butter- 
fly could give adequately its grace and spring and airiness.] 

OH, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. 
She is the fairies' midwife ; and she comes 
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 
On the forefinger of an alderman, 
Drawn with a team of little atomies 
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep ; 
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs, 
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers, 
The traces of the smallest spider's web, 
The collars of the moonshine's watery beams, 
Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film, 
Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat, 
Not half so big as a round little worm 
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid : 
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, 
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. 
And in this state she gallops night by night 
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love ; 
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight; 
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees ; 
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, 
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, 
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are : 
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, 
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; 
And sometime comes she with a tithe-p'ig's tail 
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, 



POETRY 161 

Then dreams he of another benefice : 
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, 
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 
Of healths five-fathom deep ; and then anon 
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, 
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two, 
And sleeps again. 

THE SEVEN AGES 

As You Like It, Act II, Scene 7 

[This is a succession of purely imaginative ideas which the voice 
should touch lightly. In this speech one meets always the question 
of impersonation: shall the mewling infant, the whining schoolboy, 
the sighing lover and the rest be imitated by the reader? It is in 
better taste not to impersonate these seven characters beyond certain 
almost imperceptible hints which the gayety of Jaques's mind might 
naturally throw off.] 

ALL the world 's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players : 
They have their exits and their entrances ; 
And one man in his time plays many parts, 
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms : 
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, 
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, 
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, 
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, 
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, 
In fair round belly with good capon lined, 
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, 
Full of wise saws and modern instances ; 
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, 
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side ; 
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 

11 



162 SELECTED READINGS 

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, 
That ends this strange eventful history, 
Is second childishness and mere oblivion, 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 



THE MOTLEY FOOL 

As You Like It, Act II, Scene 7 

[Jaques quotes from the fool with direct and intended imitation, 
even exaggeration of the latter's voice and manner. Here we find a 
good example of uncontrolled laughter.] 

A FOOL, a fool ! I met a fool i' the forest, 
A motley fool ; a miserable world \ 
As I do live by food, I met a fool ; 
Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, 
And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms, 
In good set terms, and yet a motley fool. 
" Good morrow, fool," quoth I. " No, sir," quoth he, 
" Call me not fool till Heaven hath sent me fortune." 
And then he drew a dial from his poke, 
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, 
Says very wisely, " It is ten o'clock : 
Thus we may see," quoth he, " how the world wags : 
? T is but an hour ago since it was nine, 
And after one hour more ? t will be eleven ; 
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, 
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; 
And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear 
The motley fool thus moral on the time, 
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, 
That fools should be so deep-contemplative, 
And I did laugh sans intermission 
An hour by his dial. noble fool ! 
A worthy fool ! Motley 's the only wear. 






POETRY 163 

BENEDICK'S SOLILOQUY 

Much Ado About Nothing, Act II, Scene 3 

[The soliloquy is about Claudio in love. Although it is directed 
against matrimony, we see that Benedick has his own marriage in 
mind. His wife must be fair, mild, noble, witty, rich, wise, virtuous, 
and musical. He afterwards confesses to have all these things com- 
bined in Beatrice.] 

BOY! In my chamber-window lies a book: bring it 
hither to me in the orchard. ... I do much wonder 
that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when 
he dedicates his behaviors to love, will, after he hath laughed 
at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his 
own scorn by falling in love ; and such a man is Claudio. I 
have known when there was no music with him but the drum 
and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the 
pipe: I have known when he would have walked ten mile 
afoot to see a good armor; and now will he lie ten nights 
awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to 
speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a 
soldier ; and now is he turned orthography : his words are a 
very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I 
be so converted and see with these eyes ? I cannot tell ; I 
think not. I will not be sworn but love may transform me to 
an oyster ; but I '11 take my oath on it, till he have made an 
oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman 
is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; an- 
other virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one 
woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Kich she 
shall be, that 's certain ; wise, or I '11 none ; virtuous, or I '11 
never cheapen her ; fair, or I '11 never look on her ; mild, or 
come not near me ; noble, or not I for an angel ; of good dis- 
course, an excellent musician, and he.7 hair shall be of what 
color it please God. 

LIFE'S REVELS 

The Tempest, Act IV, Scene 1 

UR revels now are ended. These our actors, 
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
Are melted into air, into thin air: 



o 



164 SELECTED READINGS 

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
The cloud-eapp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve 
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 
As dreams are made on ; and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 



JULIET'S WOOING OF THE NIGHT 

From Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene 2, Capulet's 
orchard 

Enter Juliet 
Jultet. 

GALLOP apace, you fiery-footed steeds 
Towards Phoebus' lodging : such a wagoner 
As Phaethon would whip you to the west, 
And bring in cloudy night immediately. 
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, 
That runaways' eyes may wink, and Romeo 
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen. 

Come night ; come Romeo ; come, thou day in night ; 

For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night 

Whiter than new snow on a raven's back. 

Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night 

Give me my Romeo ; and, when he shall die, 

Take him and cut him out in little stars, 

And he will make the face of heaven so fine 

That all the world will be in love with night 

And pay no worship to the garish sun. 



Act II Scene 5. Capulet's orchard 
Enter Juliet 

Juliet. The clock struck nine when I did send the 
nurse ; 
In half an hour she promised to return. 
Perchance she cannot meet him ; that 's not so. 



POETRY 165 

0, she is lame ! love's heralds should be thoughts, 
Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, 
Driving back shadows over lowering hills ; 
Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love, 
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. 
Now is the sun upon the highmost hill 
Of this day's journey and from nine till twelve 
Is three long hours, yet she is not come. 
Had she affections and warm youthful blood, 
She would be as swift in motion as a ball ; 
My words would bandy her to my sweet love, 
And his to me : 

[Nurse is seen approaching. 

Heaven, she comes! [Running to her.} honey nurse, 

what news? 
Nurse. [Irritated.] 

1 am a-weary [Looks at Juliet], give me leave awhile: 

[Juliet takes nurse's cane, rests it against a tree. 
Nurse walks towards rustic seat. 
Tie, how my bones ache! [Puts both hands on her knees: 
sinks on seat.'] what a jaunt have I had ! 
Juliet. [Buns to her and kneels at her left side.] 
I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news. 
Nay, come, I pray thee, speak ; good, good nurse, speak. 

[Puts arms about her neck. 
Nurse. [Unclasping Juliet's hands and casting her 
aside.] Jesu, what haste ? can you not stay awhile ? 

[Fanning herself with her hands. 
Do you not see that I am out of breath ? 

Juliet. [In graceful attitude on the floor, leaning on her 
hands, behind her.] 
How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath 
To say to me that thou art out of breath ? 
The excuse that thou dost make in this delay 
Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. 

[Rises to her knees, puts arms around nurse's neck. 
Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that; 
Say either, and I '11 stay the circumstance. 

[Puts her cheek against the nurse's cheek. 
Let me be satisfied, is 't good or bad ? 

Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice ; 
You know not how to choose a man, 

[Juliet rises and pouts. 



166 SELECTED READINGS 

Go thy ways, wench ; serve God. 

[During this dialogue the nurse delights in teas* 
ing Juliet, being a little jealous of Juliet's 
anxiety to hear from Romeo. 
What, have you dined at home ? 

Juliet. No, no ; but all this did I know before. 

[Goes behind nurse, putting her arms about her 
neck, coaxingly. 
What says he of our marriage ? What of that ? 

Nurse. Lord, how my head aches ! [Juliet tenderly rubs 
one side of nurse's head.] what a head have I ! 

[Juliet rubs other side. 
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. 

[Juliet rubs both sides at same time; makes 
pantomime of impatience. 
My back [Juliet kneels and rubs her right side.] o' t' other 
side, 

[Juliet rises and goes to the other side; kneels, 
and rubs other side. 
[Rocking back and forth.] 0, my back, my back ! 

[Looks at Juliet severely. 
Beshrew your heart for sending me about, 
To catch my death with jaunting up and down ! 

Juliet. [Embracing nurse.] 
I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. 
Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love ? 

Nurse. Your love says [Juliet jumps up, clapping her 

hands, delighted that she is at last to be told the neius.], 

like an honest gentleman, [Juliet nods in approval. 

And a courteous, [Juliet nods again.] and a kind, [Juliet 

nods again.] and a handsome, 

[Juliet nods ecstatically. 
And, I warrant, a virtuous, — [Juliet looks disapproval. 

Where is your mother? 
Juliet. [Slowly goes behind the nurse, to her left.] 
Where is my mother ! why, she is within ; 
Where should she be ? How oddly thou repliest ! 
" Your love says, like an honest gentleman, 
Where is your mother ? " 

Nurse. God's lady dear ! 

Are you so hot ? marry, come up, I trow ; 

[Juliet goes to her. 
Is this the poultice for my aching bones ? 



POETRY 167 

Henceforward do your messages yourself, 

Juliet. [Retires slowly up stage, pouiingly.~\ 
Here 's suoh a coil ! 

[Juliet, in pantomime, indicates to the audi- 
ence that she will coax the nurse; she goes 
on tiptoe to her right side, and attempts to 
kiss her on right cheelc. The nurse hastily 
turns her head, looking at the audience as 
much as to say, " I 11 Iceep this up for 
awhile/' Juliet resolves to make a second 
attempt. She tiptoes around softly to the 
nurse's left side and stoops to hiss her. The 
nurse again turns her head. Juliet hesi- 
tates; then resolves to make a third effort; 
she tiptoes in a wide circle, round right, 
down in front of the nurse, who can no 
longer withstand her. She extends both 
arms to Juliet, who flies into them, and is 
clasped in a warm embrace. 
come, what says Romeo? 
Nurse. [Looking at Juliet fondly.] 
Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day ? 
Juliet. [Jumping up and clapping her hands.] I have. 
Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell ; 
There stays a husband to make you a wife. 

[Juliet stands in bashful attitude, blushing, 
covers her cheek with her hand, the fingers 
of which are spread widely apart. Nurse 
observing. 
Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks, . . . 
Hie you to church, [Rising and going to right.] I must an- 
other way, 

[Juliet runs, fetches the nurse's cane, which she 
places in her right hand, at the same time 
throwing her left arm affectionately around 
the nurse, as they go up right. 

To fetch a ladder, by the which your love 

Must climb a bird's nest soon 

[Turning around left and facing Juliet; speak- 
ing in low tone. 

when it is dark; 
Go ; I '11 to dinner : hie you to the cell. 



168 SELECTED READINGS 

Juliet. [Joyously.] 
Hie to high fortune ! Honest nurse, farewell. 

[As Juliet is rushing off left, the nurse gives a 
slight cough; Juliet turns, rushes bach, and 
hisses the nurse on her left cheeh; then hur- 
riedly leaves the stage, left. The nurse 
leaning on her cane, stands watching her, 
nods her head, sighs, and goes off right. 

Shakespeabe. 
Arranged by Anna Morgan. 



THE POTION SCENE 

From Romeo and Juliet, Act IV, Scene 3 
Scene: Juliet's chamber 

Enter Juliet and Nurse, who bears wedding garments 

Juliet. [Loohing at garments.'] 

AY, those attires are best : but, gentle nurse, 
I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night; 
For I have need of many orisons 
To move the heavens to smile upon my state, 
Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin. 

Enter Lady Capulet 

Lady Cap. What, are you busy, ho ? need you my help ? 
Juliet. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries 
As are behovef ul for our state to-morrow : 
So please you, let me now be left alone, 
And let the nurse this night sit up with you; 
For, I am sure, you have your hands full all, 
In this so sudden business. 

Lady Cap. [Crossing and hissing Juliet on the fore' 
head.] Good night ; 
Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need. 

[Exit Lady Capulet, right, followed by nurse, 
who pauses, loohs at Juliet, comes bach, 
embraces her, and exit hurriedly. 
Juliet. [Loohing after them.] 
Farewell ! God knows when we shall meet again. 
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, 



POETRY 169 

That almost freezes up the heat of life : 
I '11 call them back again to comfort me. 

[Running to right. 
Nurse ! What should she do here ? 
My dismal scene I needs must act alone. 
Come, vial. 

[Taking vial from her bosom, holding it in left 
hand and referring to it with right hand. 
What if this mixture do not work at all ? 
Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? 
No, no : [Drawing dagger with right hand from girdle left.~\ 

this shall forbid it. [Advances three steps and lays 

the dagger on a small table.'] 

Lie thou there. 

[Again referring to the vial. 
What if it be a poison, which the Friar 
Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead, 
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonored 
Because he married me before to Eomeo ? 
I fear it is ; and yet, methinks, it should not, 
For he hath still been tried a holy man. 

[Puts vial in her bosom. 
How if, when I am laid into the tomb, 
I wake before the time that Eomeo 
Come to redeem me ? there 's a fearful point ! 
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, 
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, 
And there die strangled ere my Eomeo comes ? 
Or, if I live, is it not very like, 
The horrible conceit of death and night, 
Together with the terror of the place, — 
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, 
Where, for these many hundred years, the bones 
Of all my buried ancestors are packed; 
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, 
Lies festering in his shroud ; where, as they say, ^ 
At some hours in the night spirits resort; . . . 
0, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, 
Environed with all these hideous fears? 
And madly play with my forefathers' joints ? 
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? 
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone, 
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains ? 



170 SELECTED READINGS 

0, look ! methinks I see my cousin's ghost 
Seeking out Romeo, . . . 

Stay, Tybalt, stay ! — 
Romeo, I come ! 

[Drawing vial from bosom with left hand and 
withdrawing cork with right hand. 
this do I drink to thee. 
[Throws away the vial. She is overcome, sinks 
to the couch or floor. 

[Note. Neither the vial nor the dagger should be used except 
when the scene is given with costumes and scenery.] 



UP AT A VILLA — DOWN IN THE CITY 

[An Italian of quality who is bored to death in his country residence, 
but cannot afford the town, contrasts the dulness of the villa with 
the amusements of the city.] 

HAD I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, 
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city- 
square ; 
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there ! 

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least ! 
There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast ; 
While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a 
beast. 

Well now, look at our villa ! stuck like the horn of a bull 
Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull, 
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull ! 
— I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair 's turned 
wool. 

But the city, oh the city — the square with the houses ! Why ? 
They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there 's something to 

take the eye ! 
Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry ; 
You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries 

by; 
Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun 

gets high; 
And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. 



POETRY 171 

What of a villa ? Though winter be over in March by rights, 

'T is May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off 
the heights : 

You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen 
steam and wheeze, 

And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive- 
trees. 

Is it better in May, I ask you? You 've summer all at once; 
In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. 
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers 

well, 
The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell 
Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and 

sell. 

Is it ever hot in the square ? There 's a fountain to spout 
and splash ! 

In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam- 
bows flash 

On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle 
and pash 

Kound the lady atop in her conch — fifty gazers do not abash, 

Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in 
a sort of sash. 

All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you 
linger, 

Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted fore- 
finger. 

Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the corn and 
mingle, 

Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. 

Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, 

And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous 
firs on the hill. 

Enough of the seasons, — I spare you the months of the fever 
and chill. 

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells 

begin: 
No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in : 
You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. 



172 SELECTED READINGS 

By and by there 's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, 

draws teeth ; 
Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. 
At the post-office such a scene-picture, — the new play, piping 

hot! 
And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves 

were shot. 
Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, 
And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law 

of the Duke's ! 
Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and- 

So, 
Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero, 
"And moreover" (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts 

of Saint Paul has reached, 
Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous 

than ever he preached." 
Noon strikes, — here sweeps the procession ! our Lady borne 

smiling and smart 
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck 

in her heart ! 
Bang-wliang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. 
No keeping one's haunches still : it 's the greatest pleasure in 

life. 

But bless you, it 's dear — it 's dear ! fowls, wine, at double 

the rate. 
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays 

passing the gate 
It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city ! 
Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still — ah, the pity, 

the pity ! 
Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls 

and sandals, 
And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the 

yellow candles ; 
One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with 

handles, 
And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better pre- 
vention of scandals : 
Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. 
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life ! 

Robert Browning. 



POETRY 173 



SUMMUM BONUM 

ALL the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of 
one bee : 
All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of 
one gem: 
In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the 
sea: 
Breath and bloom, shade and shine, — wonder, wealth, 
and — how far above them — 
Truth, that 's brighter than gem, 
Trust, that 's purer than pearl, 
Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe — all were for 
me 
In the kiss of one girl. 

Robert Browning. 

A TALE 

[A wife is recalling to her poet husband a tale which he once told 
her of a musician who was enabled to win a prize through the aid of 
a cricket, who sounded the wanting note when one of the strings of 
his lyre snapped in twain. She desires similar recognition from her 
husband for the encouragement and help she has given him.] 

WHAT a pretty tale you told me 
Once upon a time 
— Said you found it somewhere (scold me !) 

Was it prose or was it rhyme, 
Greek or Latin ? Greek, you said, 
While your shoulder propped my head. 

Anyhow there ? s no forgetting 

This much if no more, 
That a poet (pray, no petting!) 

Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, 
Went where suchlike used to go, 
Singing for a prize, you know. 

Well, he had to sing, nor merely 

Sing but play the lyre ; 
Playing was important clearly 

Quite as singing: I desire, 
Sir, you keep the fact in mind 
For a purpose that 's behind. 



174 SELECTED READINGS 

There stood he, while deep attention 
Held the judges round, 

— Judges able, I should mention, 

To detect the slightest sound 
Sung or played amiss : such ears 
Had old judges, it appears ! 

None the less he sang out boldly, 

Played in time and tune, 
Till the judges, weighing coldly 

Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, 
Sure to smile " In vain one tries 
Picking faults out : take the prize 1 " 

When, a mischief ! Were they seven 

Strings the lyre possessed? 
Oh, and afterwards eleven, 

Thank you! Well, sir, — who had guessed 
Such ill luck in store ? — it happed 
One of those same seven strings snapped. 

All was lost, then ! No ! a cricket 
(What "cicada"? Pooh!) 

— Some mad thing that left its thicket 

For mere love of music — flew 
With its little heart on fire, 
Lighted on the crippled lyre. 

So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer 

For his truant string 
Feels with disconcerted finger, 

What does cricket else but fling 
Fiery heart forth, sound the note 
Wanted by the throbbing throat? 

Ay and, ever to the ending, 

Cricket chirps at need, 
Executes the hand's intending, 

Promptly, perfectly, — indeed 
Saves the singer from defeat 
With her chirrup low and sweet. 

Till, at ending, all the judges 

Cry with one assent, 
" Take the prize — a prize who grudges 

Such a voice and instrument? 



POETRY 175 

Why, we took your lyre for harp, 
So it shrilled us forth F sharp ! " 

Did the conqueror spurn the creature, 

Once its service done? 
That 's no such uncommon feature 

In the case when Music's son 
Finds his Lotte's power too spent 
For aiding soul development. 

No ! This other, on returning 

Homeward, prize in hand, 
Satisfied his bosom's yearning : 

(Sir, I hope you understand!) 
— Said " Some record there must be 
Of this cricket's help to me ! " 

So, he made himself a statue: 

Marble stood, life-size ; 
On the lyre, he pointed at you, 

Perched his partner in the prize; 
Never more apart you found 
Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. 

That 's the tale : its application ? 

Somebody I know 
Hopes one day for reputation 

Through his poetry that 's — Oh, 
AH so learned and so wise 
And deserving of a prize ! 

If he gains one, will some ticket, 

When his statue's built, 
Tell the gazer " 'T was a cricket 

Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt 
Sweet and low, when strength usurped 
Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? 

" For as victory was nighest, 

While I sang and played, — 
With my lyre at lowest, highest, 

Right alike, — one string that made 
' Love ' sound soft was snapt in twain, 
Never to be heard again, — 



176 SELECTED READINGS 

" Had not a kind cricket fluttered, 

Perched upon the place 
Vacant left, and duly uttered 

6 Love, Love, Love/ whene'er the bass 
Asked the treble to atone 
For its somewhat sombre drone." 

But you don't know music ! Wherefore 

Keep on casting pearls 
To a — poet? All I care for 

Is — to tell him that a girl's 
" Love " comes aptly in when gruff 
Grows his singing. (There, enough!) 

Robert Browning. 



ONE WAY OF LOVE 

[A lover has spent all "June" in gathering roses to strew on his 
love's path with the chance of her seeing them ; he has spent months 
mastering the difficulties of the lute. If Pauline had bidden him sing 
he would have been prepared. He throws his whole life into a love 
which is hers to accept or reject. Although she cares for none of these 
things, he can still say "Blest are they who win love."] 

ALL June I bound the rose in sheaves. 
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves 
And strew them where Pauline may pass. 
She will not turn aside ? Alas ! 
Let them lie. Suppose they die? 
The chance was they might take her eye. 

How many a month I strove to suit 
These stubborn fingers to the lute ! 
To-day I venture all I know. 
She will not hear my music ? So ! 
Break the string; fold music's wing: 
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ! 

My whole life long I learned to love. 
This hour my utmost art I prove 
And speak my passion — heaven or hell ? 
She will not give me heaven ? 'T is well ! 
Lose who may — I still can say, 
Those who win heaven, blest are they ! 

Eobert Browning. 



POETRY 177 



YOUTH AND ART 

["Youth and Art" is a reminiscence of Bohemian days by a singer 
to a sculptor. Before they were famous they worked in garrets op- 
posite each other. Though they have succeeded in their artistic 
careers the singer feels that their lives have been incomplete because 
they missed one another.] 

IT once might have been, once only : 
We lodged in a street together, 
You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, 
I, a lone she-bird of his feather. 

Your trade was with sticks and clay, 

You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, 

Then laughed " They will see some day, 
Smith made, and Gibson demolished." 

4 

My business was song, song, song; 

I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, 
" Kate Brown 's on the boards ere long, 

And Grisi's existence embittered ! " 

I earned no more by a warble 

Than you by a sketch in plaster ; 
You wanted a piece of marble, 

I needed a music-master. 

We studied hard in our styles, 

Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, 

For air, looked out on the tiles, 

For fun, watched each other's windows. 

You lounged, like a boy of the South, 

Cap and blouse — nay, a bit of beard too ; 

Or you got it, rubbing your mouth 
With fingers the clay adhered to. 

And I — soon managed to find 

Weak points in the flower-fence facing, 

Was forced to put up a blind 

And be safe in my corset-lacing. 

"No harm ! It was not my fault 

If you never turned your eye's tail up 

As I shook upon E in alt., 

Or ran the chromatic scale up : 
12 



178 SELECTED READINGS 

For spring bade the sparrows pair, 

And the boys and girls gave guesses, 

And stalls in our street looked rare 
With bulrush and watercresses. 

Why did not you pinch a flower 

In a pellet of clay and fling it ? 
Why did I not put a power 

Of thanks in a look, or sing it? 

I did look, sharp as a lynx, 

(And yet the memory rankles), 
When models arrived, some minx 

Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles. 

But I think I gave you as good ! 

" That foreign fellow, — who can know 
How she pays, in a playful mood, 

For his tuning her that piano ? " 

Could you say so, and never say, 

" Suppose we join hands and fortunes, 

And I fetch her from over the way, 

Her piano, and long tunes and short tunes " ? 

No, no; you would not be rash, 

Nor I rasher and something over: 

You 've to settle yet Gibson's hash, 
And Grisi yet lives in clover. 

But you meet the Prince at the Board, 

I'm queen myself at bals-pares, 
I 've married a rich old lord, 

And you 're dubbed knight and an R.A. 

Each life unfulfilled, you see ; 

It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: 
We have not sighed deep, laughed free, 

Starved, feasted, despaired, — been happy, 

And nobody calls you a dunce, 

And people suppose me clever: 
This could but have happened once, 

And we missed it, lost it forever. 

Robert Browning. 



POETRY 179 



CONFESSIONS 

["Confessions" is a dying man's reply to a clergyman's inquiry: 
Does he view the world as a vale of tears now that he comes to die? 
In fancy he roves through past days, and is retracing the path by 
which he could creep unseen by any eyes but hers to the " rose-wreathed 
gate." The scene comes back to him in the arrangement of medicine 
bottles on a table at his bedside. He admits that their meetings 
were "sad and bad and mad. . . . But then, how it was sweet !"] 

WHAT is he buzzing in my ears ? 
" Now that I come to die, 
Do I view the world as a vale of tears ? " 
Ah, reverend sir, not I! 

What I viewed there once, what I view again 

Where the physic bottles stand 
On the table's edge, — is a suburb lane, 

With a wall to my bedside hand. 

That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, 

From a house you could descry 
O'er the garden wall ; is the curtain blue 

Or green to a healthy eye ? 

To mine, it serves for the old June weather 

Blue above lane and wall ; 
And that farthest bottle labelled " Ether " 

Is the house o'ertopping all. 

At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper, 

There watched for me, one June, 
A girl : I know, sir, it 's improper, 

My poor mind's out of tune. 

Only, there was a way . . . you crept 

Close by the side, to dodge 
Eyes in the house, two eyes except: 

They styled their house " The Lodge." 

What right had a lounger up their lane? 

But, by creeping very close, 
With the good wall's help, — their eyes might strain 

And stretch themselves to Oes, 



180 SELECTED READINGS 

Yet never ca?teh her and me together, 

As she left the attic, there, 
By the rim of the bottle labelled " Ether," 

And stole from stair to stair, 

And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, 

We loved, sir — used to meet : 
How sad and bad and mad it was — 

But then, how it was sweet ! 

Kobert Browning. 



TIME'S REVENGES 

["Time's Revenges" is a confession made in the form of a soliloquy. 
The speaker has a man friend whose devotion will stand any test, yet 
he cannot reciprocate. The friend is revenged by the fact that the 
man loves a woman for whom he has given up body and soul and 
peace and fame; yet she would see him " roast at a slow fire" if it 
would procure her an invitation to a certain ball.] 

I'VE a Friend, over the sea ; 
I like him, but he loves me. 
It all grew out of the books I write ; 
They find such favor in his sight 
That he slaughters you with savage looks 
Because you don't admire my books. 
He does himself, though, — and if some vein 
Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain, 
To-morrow month, if I lived to try, 
Round should I just turn quietly, 
Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand 
Till I found him, come from his foreign land 
To be my nurse in this poor place, 
And make my broth and wash my face 
And light my fire and, all the while, 
Bear with his old good-humored smile 
That I told him " Better have kept away 
Than come and kill me, night and day, 
With, worse than fever throbs and shoots, 
The creaking of his clumsy boots/' 
I am as sure that this he would do, 
As that St. Paul's is striking two. 
And I think I rather . . . woe is me ! 
— Yes, rather should see him than not see, 
If lifting a hand could seat him there 



POETRY 181 

Before me in the empty chair 
To-night, when my head aches indeed, 
And I can neither think nor read, 
Nor make these purple fingers hold 
The pen ; this garret 's freezing cold ! 

And I 've a Lady — there he wakes, 

The laughing fiend and prince of snakes 

Within me, at her name, to pray 

Fate send some creature in the way 

Of my love for her, to be down-torn, 

TJpthrust and outward-borne, 

So I might prove myself that sea 

Of passion which I needs must be ! 

Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint, 

And my style infirm, and its figures faint, 

All the critics say, and more blame yet, 

And not one angry word you get. 

But, please you, wonder I would put 

My cheek beneath that lady's foot 

Rather than trample under mine 

The laurels of the Florentine, 

And you shall see how the devil spends 

A fire God gave him for other ends ! 

I tell you, I stride up and down 

This garret, crowned with Love's best crown, 

And feasted with Love's perfect feast, 

To think I kill for her, at least, 

Body and soul and peace and fame, 

Alike youth's end and manhood's aim, 

— So is my spirit, as flesh with sin, 
Filled dull, eaten out and in 

With the face of her, the eyes of her, 

The lips, the little chin, the stir 

Of shadow round her mouth; and she 

— I '11 tell you — calmly would decree 
That I should roast at a slow fire, 

If that would compass her desire 
And make her one whom they invite 
To the famous ball to-morrow night. 

There may be heaven ; there must be hell ; 
Meantime, there is our earth here — well ! 

Robert Browning. 



182 SELECTED READINGS 



PORPHYRIAS LOVER 

v [A man wishes to immortalize the moment when Porphyria, hia 
love, realized the supreme wish of her life to be completely his, and 
so murders her. God seems to justify the act, because no inner voice 
tells him it was wrong.] 

THE rain set early in to-night, 
The sullen wind was soon awake, 
It tore the elm-tops down for spite, 

And did its worst to vex the lake: 
I listened with heart fit to break. 
When glided in Porphyria; straight 

She shut the cold out and the storm, 
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate 

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm ; 
Which done, she rose, and from her form 
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, 

And laid her soiled gloves by, untied 
Her hat and let the damp hair fall, 

And, last, she sat down by my side 
And called me. When no voice replied, 
She put my arm about her waist, 

And made her smooth white shoulder bare 
And all her yellow hair displaced, 

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, 
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, 
Murmuring how she loved me — she 

Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor, 
To set its struggling passion free 

From pride, and vainer ties dissever, 
And give herself to me forever. 
But passion sometimes would prevail, 

Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain 
A sudden thought of one so pale 

For love of her, and all in vain : 
So, she was come through wind and rain. 
Be sure I looked up at her eyes 

Happy and proud; at last I knew 
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise 

Made my heart swell, and still it grew 
While I debated what to do. 
That moment she was mine, mine, fair, 

Perfectly pure and good : I found 



POETRY 183 

A thing to do, and all her hair 

In one long yellow string I wound 
Three times her little throat around, 
And strangled her. No pain felt she; 

I am quite sure she felt no pain. 
As a shut bud that holds a bee, 

I warily oped her lids: again 
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. 
And I untightened next the tress 

About her neck ; her cheek once more 
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: 

I propped her head up as before, 
Only, this time my shoulder bore 
Her head, which droops upon it still : 

The smiling rosy little head, 
So glad it has its utmost will, 

That all it scorned at once is fled, 
And I, its love, am gained instead ! 
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how 

Her darling one wish would be heard. 
And thus we sit together now. 

And all night long we have not stirred, 
And yet God has not said a word ! 

Eobeet Browning. 



MY LAST DUCHESS 

[Here we find a jealousy, a selfishness which exceeds that of Leontes. 
The Duke of Ferrara is exhibiting the portrait of his first wife to the 
envoy of a nobleman, whose daughter he purposes to marry. He is 
indignant because his wife was promiscuous in her admirations, and 
did not esteem his gift of a nine-hundred-year-old name above that 
of others. He has pride in possession, he cares more for the fact that 
he has a picture painted by Fra Pandolf than that it is a faithful 
portrait of his wife. He also boasts that he has a bronze especially cast 
for him by Claus of Innsbruck. 

This may be called a perfect monologue, telling as it does a com- 
plete story in fifty-six lines.] 

THAT ? s my last Duchess painted on the wall, 
Looking as if she were alive. I call 
That piece a wonder, now : Fra Pandolf s hands 
"Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 
Will 't please you sit and look at her ? I said 
" Fra Pandolf " by design, for never read 
Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 



184 SELECTED READINGS 

The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 

But to myself they turned (since none puts by 

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 

How such a glance came there; so, not the first 

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not 

Her husband's presence only, called that spot 

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : perhaps 

Era, Pandolf chanced to say, " Her mantle laps 

Over my lady's wrist too much," or " Paint 

Must never hope to reproduce the faint 

Half-blush that dies along her throat : " such stuff 

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 

For calling up that spot of joy. She had 

A heart — how shall I say ? — too soon made glad, 

Too easily impressed : she liked whate'er 

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 

Sir, 't was all one ! My favor at her breast, 

The dropping of the daylight in the west, 

The bough of cherries some officious fool 

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 

She rode with round the terrace — all and each 

Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good ! but thanked 

Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 

With anybody's gift. Who 'd stoop to blame 

This sort of trifling ? Even had you skill 

In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will 

Quite clear to such an one, and say, " Just this 

Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss, 

Or there exceed the mark " — and if she let 

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 

— E'en then would be some stooping ; and I choose 

Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, 

Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without 

Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave commands ; 

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 

As if alive. Will 't please you rise ? We '11 meet 

The company below, then. I repeat, 

The Count your master's known munificence 

Is ample warrant that no just pretence 



POETRY 185 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ; 
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 
At starting, is my object. Nay, we '11 go 
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, 
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me ! 

Robert Browning. 



GENTLEMEN-RANKERS 

TO the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned, 
To my brethren in their sorrows overseas, 
Sings a gentleman of England, cleanly bred, machinery 
crammed, 
And a trooper of the Empress, if you please. 
Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses, 

And faith he went the pace and went it blind, 
And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin, 
But to-day the Sergeant 's something less than kind. 
We 're poor little lambs who 've lost our way, 

Baa ! Baa ! Baa ! 
We 're little black sheep who 've gone astray, 

Baa-aa-aa ! 
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree 
Damned from here to Eternity, 
God ha' mercy on such as we, 
Baa! Yah! Bah! 

Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty 
kitchen slops, 

And it 's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell, 
To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops, 

And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well. 
Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be Rider to your troop, 

And branded with a blasted worsted spur, 
When you envy, oh, how keenly, one poor Tommy being 
cleanly 

Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you " Sir." 

If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep, 
And all we know most distant and most dear, 

Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep, 
Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer ? 



186 SELECTED READINGS 

When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard- 
lantern gutters, 
And the horror of our fall is written plain, 
Every secret, self-revealing on the aching whitewashed 
ceiling, 
Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain? 

We have done with Hope and Honor, we are lost to Love and 
Truth, 
We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung, 
And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth, 

God help us, for we knew the worst too young ! 
Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the 
sentence, 
Our pride it is to know no spur of pride, 
And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds ua 
And we die, and none can tell Them where we died. 
We 're poor little lambs who 've lost our way, 

Baa ! Baa ! Baa ! 
We 're little black sheep who 've gone astray, 

Baa-aa-aa ! 
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree, 
Damned from here to Eternity, 
God ha' mercy on such as we, 
Baa! Yah! Bah! 

Rudyard Kipling. 



CHANT-PAGAN 

ME that 'ave been what I 've been, 
Me that 'ave gone where I 've gone, 
Me that 'ave seen what I Ve seen — 

'Ow can I ever take on 
With awful old England again, 
An 'ouses both sides of the lane, 
And the parson an' gentry between, 
An' touchin' my 'at when we meet — 
Me that 'ave been what I 've been ? 

Me that 'ave watched 'arf a world 

'Eave up all shiny with dew, 

Kopje on kop to the sun, 

An' as soon as the mist let 'em through 



POETRY 187 

Our 'elios winkin' like fun — 
Three sides of a ninety-mile square, 
Over valleys as big as a shire — 
Are ye there ? Are ye there ? Are ye there ? 
An' then the blind drum of our fire — 
An' I'm rollin' 'is lawns for the Squire, 

Me! 

Me that 'ave rode through the dark 
Forty mile often on end, 
Along the Ma'ollisberg Kange, 
With only the stars for my mark 
An' only the night for my friend, 
An' things runnin' off as you pass, 
An' things jumpin' up in the grass, 
An' the silence, the shine an' the size 
Of the 'igh, inexpressible skies — 
I am takin' some letters almost 
As much as a mile, to the post, 
An' " mind you come back with the change ! " 

Me! 

Me that saw Barberton took 
When we dropped through the clouds on their 'ead 
An' they 'ove the guns over an' fled -~ 
Me that was through Di'mond '111, 
An' Pieters an' Springs an' Belfast — 
From Dundee to Vereeniging all ! 
Me that stuck out to the last 
(An' five bloomin' bars on my chest) 
I am doin' my Sunday-school best, 
By the 'elp of the Squire an' 'is wife 
(Not to mention the 'ousemaid an' cook), 
To come in an' 'ands up an' be still, 
An' honestly work for my bread, 
My livin' in that state of life 
To which it shall please God to call 

Me! 

Me that 'ave followed my trade 
In the place where the lightnin's is made, 
'Twixt the Eains and the Sun and the Moon ; 
Me that lay down an' got up 



188 SELECTED READINGS 

Three years an' the sky for my roof — 
That 'ave ridden my 'unger an' thirst 
Six thousand raw mile on the 'oof, 
With the Vaal and the Orange for cup, 
An' the Brandwater Basin for dish, — . 
Oh ! it 's 'ard to be'ave as they wish, 
(Too 'ard, an' a little too soon), 
I'll 'ave to think over it first — 

Me! 

I will arise an' get 'ence; 

I will trek South and make sure 

If it 's only my fancy or not 

That the sunshine of England is pale, 

And the breezes of England are stale, 

An' there 's somethin' gone small with the lot ; 

For I know of a sun an' a wind, 

An' some plains and a mountain be'ind, 

An' some graves by a barb- wire fence ; 

An' a Dutchman I 've fought 'oo might give 

Me a job were I ever inclined, 

To look in an' off saddle an' live 

Where there 's neither a road nor a tree -— 

But only my Maker an' me, 

An' I think it will kill me or cure, 

So I think I will go there an' see. 

Rudyard Kipling. 

MY RIVAL 

I GO to concert, party, ball — 
What profit is in these ? 
I sit alone against the wall 

And strive to look at ease. 
The incense that is mine by right 
They burn before her shrine ; 
And that's because I'm seventeen 
And she is forty-nine. 

I cannot check my girlish blush, 

My color comes and goes; 
I redden to my finger tips, 

And sometimes to my nose. 



POETRY 189 

But she is white where white should be, 

And red where red should shine. 
The blush that flies at seventeen 

Is fixed at forty-nine. 

I wish I had her constant cheek; 

I wish that I could sing 
All sorts of funny little songs, 

Not quite the proper thing. 
I 'm very gauche and very shy, 

Her jokes are n't in my line ; 
And, worst of all, I 'm seventeen, 

While she is forty-nine. 

The young men come, the young men go, 

Each pink and white and neat, 
She's older than their mothers, but 

They grovel at her feet. 
They walk beside her 'rickshaw wheels — 

They never walk by mine ; 
And that 's because I 'm seventeen, 

And she is forty-nine. 

She rides with half a dozen men 

(She calls them "boys" and "mashes") 
I trot along the Mall alone; 

My prettiest frocks and sashes 
Don't help to fill my programme-card, 

And vainly I repine 
From ten to two a. m. Ah me ! 

Would I were forty-nine. 

She calls me " darling," " pet," and " dear," 

And " sweet retiring maid." 
I 'm always at the back, I know, 

She puts me in the shade. 
She introduces me to men, 

" Cast " lovers, I opine, 
For sixty takes to seventeen, 

Nineteen to forty-nine. 

But even she must older grow 

And end her dancing days, 
She can't go on for ever so 

At concerts, balls, and plays. 



190 SELECTED READINGS 

One ray of priceless hope I see 

Before my footsteps shine : 
Just think, that she '11 be eighty-one 

When I am forty-nine ! 

Eudyard Kipling. 



BOOTS 

WE 'RE foot — slog — slog — slog — sloggin' over Africa ! 
Foot — foot — foot — sloggin' over Africa — 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots, movin' up an' down again) ; 
There 's no discharge in the war ! 

Seven — six — eleven — five — nine-an'-twenty mile to-day — 
Four — eleven — seventeen — thirty-two the day before — 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots, movin' up an' down again) ; 
There 's no discharge in the war ! 

Don't — don't — don't — don't — look at what 's in front of you 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots, movin' up an' down again) ; 
Men — men — men — men — men — go mad with watchin' 'em, 
An' there 's no discharge in the war. 

Try — try — try — try to think o' something different — 
Oh — my — God — keep — me from goin' lunatic ! 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots, movin'. up an' down again) ; 
There 's no discharge in the war. 

Count — count — count — count — the bullets in the bandoliers ; 
If — your — eyes — drop — they will get atop o' you 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots, movin' up an' down again) ; 
There 's no discharge in the war ! 

'T ain't — so — bad — by — day because o' company, 
But night — brings — long — strings — o' forty thousand million 
(Boots — boots — boots — -boots, movin' up an' down again) ; 
There 's no discharge in the war ! 

I — 'ave — marched — six — weeks in 'ell an' certify 

It — is — not — fire — devils, dark, or anything 

But boots — boots — boots — boots, movin' up an' down again, 



An' there 's no discharge in the war ! 



Rudyard Kipling. 



POETRY 191 



THE DREAM-SHIP* 

WHEN" the world is fast asleep, 
Along the midnight skies — 
As though it were a wandering cloud — 
The ghostly dream-ship flies. 

An angel stands at the dream-ship's helm, 

An angel stands at the prow, 
And an angel stands at the dream-ship's side 

With a rue-wreath on her brow. 

The other angels, silver-crowned, 

Pilot and helmsman are, 
And the angel with the wreath of rue 

Tosseth the dreams afar. 

The dreams they fall on rich and poor; 

They fall on young and old; 
And some are dreams of poverty, 

And some are dreams of gold. 

And some are dreams that thrill with joy, 

And some that melt to tears; 
Some are dreams of the dawn of love, 

And some of the old dead years. 

On rich and poor alike they fall, 

Alike on young and old, 
Bringing to slumbering earth their joys 

And sorrows manifold. 

The friendless youth in them shall do 

The deeds of mighty men, 
And drooping age shall feel the grace 

Of buoyant youth again. 

The king shall be a beggarman — 

The pauper be a king — 
In that revenge or recompense 

The dream-ship dreams do bring. 

* From" Songs and Other Verse" Copyright, 1896, by Eugene Field; published 
by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



192 SELECTED READINGS 

So ever downward float the dreams 

That are for all and me, 
And there is never mortal man 

Can solve that mystery. 

But ever onward in its course 

Along the haunted skies — 
As though it were a cloud astray — 

The ghostly dream-ship flies. 

Two angels with their silver crowns 

Pilot and helmsman are, 
And an angel with a wealth of rue 

Tosseth the dreams afar. 

Eugene Field. 



THE LIMITATIONS OF YOUTH* 

I'D like to be a cowboy, an' ride a fiery hoss 
Way out into the big an' boundless West; 
I 'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across, 
An' I 'd pluck the bal' head eagle from his nest ! 

With my pistol at my side, 
I would roam the prarers wide, 
An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride — 
If I darst; but I darsen't! 

I 'd like to go to Af riky an' hunt the lions there, 

An' the biggest ollyf unts you ever saw ! 
I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair, 

An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw ! 

I 'd chase the pizen snakes 
An' the 'pottimus that makes 
His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes — 
If I darst ; but I darse n't ! 

I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue, 

With a big black flag a-flyin' overhead ; 
I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew, 

An' dye the sea a gouty, gory red ! 

* From " Songs and Other Verse." Copyright, 1896, by Eugene Field; published 
by Charles Scribner's Sons, 



POETRY 193 

With my cutlass in my hand 
On the quarterdeck I 'd stand 
And to deeds of heroism I 'd incite my pirut band — 
If I darst; but I darsen't! 

And, if I darst, I 'd lick my pa for the times that he 's licked 
me! 

1 'd lick my brother an 5 my teacher, too ! 
I 'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea, 

An' I 'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through ! 

You bet ! I 'd run away 
From my lessons to my play, 
An' I 'd shoo the hens, an' tease the cat, an' kiss the girls all 
day — 
If I darst ; but I darse n't ! 

Eugene Field. 



LONG AGO* 

I ONCE knew all the birds that came 
And nested in our orchard trees; 
For every flower I had a name — 

My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees; 
I knew where thrived in yonder glen 

What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe — 
Oh, I was very learned then; 
But that was very long ago ! 

I knew the spot upon the hill 

Where checkerberries could be found, 
I knew the rushes near the mill 

Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound ! 
I knew the wood, — the very tree 

Where lived the poaching, saucy crow, 
And all the woods and crows knew me — 

But that was very long ago. 

And pining for the joys of youth, 

I tread the old familiar spot 
Only to learn this solemn truth : 

I have forgotten, am forgot. 

* From "A Little Book of Western Verse." Copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field j 
published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 

13 



194 SELECTED READINGS 

Yet here 's this youngster at my knee 

Knows all the things I used to know; 

To think I once was wise as he — 
But that was very long ago. 

I know it 's folly to complain 

Of whatsoever the Fates decree; 
Yet were not wishes all in vain, 

I tell you what my wish should be : 
I 'd wish to be a boy again, 

Back with the friends I used to know ; 
For I was, oh ! so happy then — 

But that was very long ago ! 



Eugene Field. 



THE OLD MAN AND JIM* 

OLD man never had much to say — 
'Ceptin' to Jim, — 
And Jim was the wildest boy he had — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Never heard him speak but once 
Er twice in my life, — and the first time was 
When the army broke out, and Jim he went, 
The old man backin' him, f er three months ; 
And all 'at I- heerd the old man say 
Was, jes' as we turned to start away, — 

" Well, good-bye, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 
'Peared-like, he was more satisfied 

Jes' locikm' at Jim 
And likin' him all to hisse'f like, see ? — 

'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him ! 
And over and over I mind the day 
The old man come and stood round in the way 
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim — 
And down at the deepot a-heerin' him say, 

"Well, good-bye, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

* By permission of the author and the publishers of James Whitcomb Riley's verse, 
Messrs. Bobbs-Merrill Co. 



POETRY 195 

Never was no thin' about the farm 

Distinguished Jim; 
Neighbors all used to wonder why 

The old man 'peared wrapped up in him : 
But when Cap. Biggler he writ back 
'At Jim was the bravest boy we had 
In the whole dern rigiment, white er black, 
And his iightin' good as his f armin' bad — 
'At he had led, with a bullet clean 
Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag 
Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen, — 
The old man wound up a letter to him 
'At Cap. read to us, 'at said : " Tell Jim 

Good-bye, 

And take keer of hisse'f ." 

Jim come home jes' long enough 

To take the whim 
'At he 'd like to go back in the calvery — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Jim 'lowed 'at he 'd had sich luck afore, 
Guessed he 'd tackle her three years more. 
And the old man give him a colt he 'd raised, 
And followed Mm over to Camp Ben Wade, 
And laid around fer a week or so, 
Watchin' Jim on dress-parade — 
Tel finally he rid away, 
And last he heerd was the old man say, — 

" Well, good-bye, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

Tuk the papers, the old man did, 

A-watchin' fer Jim — 
Fully believin' he 'd make his mark 

Some way — jes' wrapped up in him ! — 
And many a time the word u'd come 
'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum — 
At Petersburg, fer instunce, where 
Jim rid right into the cannons there, 
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way, 
And socked it home to the boys in gray, 
As they scooted fer timber, and on and on — 



196 SELECTED READINGS 

Jim a lieutenant and one arm gone, 

And the old man's words in his mind all day, 

" Well, good-bye, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

Think of a private, now, perhaps 

We '11 say like Jim, 
'At 's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Think of him — with the war plum* through, 

And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue 
A-laughin' the news down over Jim, 
And the old man bendin' over him — 
The surgeon turnin' away with tears 
'At had n't leaked f er years and years, 
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to 
His father's, the old voice in his ears, — 

" Well, good-bye, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

James Whitcomb Riley. 



OUT TO OLD AUNT MARY'S* 

WAS N'T it pleasant, brother mine, 
In those old days of the lost sunshine 
Of youth — when the Saturday's chores were through, 
And the " Sunday's wood " in the kitchen, too, 
And we went visiting, "me and you," 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's? 

It all comes back so clear to-day! 
Though I am as bald as you are gray — 
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, 
We platter along in the dust again, 
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's! 

We cross the pasture, and through the wood 
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood, 

* By permission of the author and the publishers, Messrs, Bobbs-MerriU Co. 



POETRY 197 

Where the hammering red-heads hopped awry, 
And the buzzard raised in the clearing sky, 
And lolled and circled, as we went by, 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

And then in the dust of the road again; 
And the teams we met, and the countrymen } 
And the long highway, with sunshine spread 
As thick as butter on country bread, 
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

Why, I see her now in the open door, 

Where the little gourds grew up the sides, and o'er 

The clapboard roof ! — And her face — ah, me ! 

Was n't it good for a boy to see — 

And was n't it good for a boy to be 

Out to Old Aunt Mary's? 

• ■ ■ 

And 0, my brother, so far away, 
This is to tell you she waits to-day 
To welcome us : — Aunt Mary fell 
Asleep this morning, whispering, " Tell 
The boys to come ! " And all is well 

Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

James Whitcomb Riley. 

THE LIFE LESSON* 

THERE! little girl don't cry! 
They have broken your doll, I know; 
And your tea-set blue, 
And your play-house, too, 
Are things of the long ago ; 

But childish troubles will soon pass by. — 
There! little girl, don't cry! 

There! little girl, don't cry! 

They have broken your slate, I know; 
And the glad, wild ways 
Of your school-girl days 
Are things of the long ago; 

But life and love will soon come by. — 
There! little girl, don't cry! 

By ■permission of the author and the publishers, Messrs. Bobbs-MerriU Co. 



198 SELECTED READINGS 

There! little girl, don't cry! 

They have broken your heart, I know; 

And the rainbow gleams 

Of your youthful dreams 
Are things of the long ago; 

But Heaven holds all for which you sigh. — 

There! little girl, don't cry! 

James Whitcomb Eiley. 



JANE JONES 

JANE JONES keeps a-whisperin' to me all the time, 
An' says: "Why don't you make it a rule 
To study your lessons, an' work hard, an' learn, 

An' never be absent from school? 
Eemember the story of Elihu Burritt, 

How he dumb up to the top; 
Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had 
Down in the blacksmithin' shop." 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so; 
Mebby he did — I dunno ; 
'Course, what 's a-keepin' me 'way from the top 
Is not never havin' no blacksmithin' shop. 

She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, 

But full o' ambition and brains, 
An' studied philosophy all 'is hull life — 

An' see what he got for his pains. 
He brought electricity out of the sky 

With a kite an' the lightnin' an' key, 
So we 're owin' him more 'n anyone else 

Fer all the bright lights 'at we see. 
Jane Jones she actually said it was so. 
Mebby he did — I dunno ; 
'Course, what 's allers been hinderin' me 
Is not havin' any kite, lightnin', or key. 

Jane Jones said Columbus was out at the knees 
When he first thought up his big scheme; 

An' all of the Spaniards an' Italians, too, 

They laughed an' just said 'twas a dream; 



POETRY 199 

But Queen Isabella she listened to him, 
An' pawned all her jewels o' worth, 
An' bought 'im the Santa Marier 'n said: 

"Go hunt up the rest of the earth." 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so ; 

Mebby he did — I dunno; 
'Course, that may all be, but you must allow 
They ain't any land to discover just now. 

Ben King. 

SHE DOES NOT HEAR 

SH-SH-SH-SH-SHE does not hear the r-r-r-r-robin sing, 
Nor f-f-f-f-feel the b-b-b-b-balmy b-b-breath of Spring; 
Sh-sh-sh-she does not hear the p-p-pelting rain 
B-b-b-beat ta-ta-tat-t-t-toos on the w-w-winder p-p-pane. 

Sh-sh-sh-she cuc-cuc-cannot see the Autumn s-s-sky, 
Nor hear the wild geese s-s-s-stringing b-b-by; 
And, oh ! how happy 't-t-t-'tis to know 
Sh-sh-she never f-f -feels an earthly woe ! 

I s-s-spoke to her; sh-sh-she would not speak. 
I kuk-kuk-kissed her, but c-c-cold was her cheek. 
I could not twine her w-w-w-wondrous hair — 
It w-w-was so wonderf-f-f-fully rare. 

B-b-beside her s-s-stands a v-v-v-vase of flowers, 
A gilded cuc-cuc-cuc-clock that t-t-tells the hours; 
And even now the f-f -fire-light f-f -f-f alls 
On her, and d-d-dances on the walls. 

Sh-sh-she 's living in a p-p-pup-purer life, 

Where there 's no tu-tuh-turmoil or no strife ; 

No t-t-t-tongue can m-m-m-mock, no words embarrass 

Her b-b-b-b-by g-g-gosh ! she 's p-p-plaster Paris ! 

Ben King. 

IF I CAN BE BY HER 

I D-D-DO N'T c-c-c-are how the r-r-r-obin sings, 
Er how the r-r-r-ooster f-f-flaps his wings, 
Er whether 't sh-sh-shines, er whether it pours, 
Er how high up the eagle s-s-soars, 
If I can b-b-b-be by her. 






200 SELECTED READINGS 

I don't care if the p-p-p-people s-say, 
'At I'm weak-minded every-w-way, 
An' n-n-never had no cuh-common sense, 
I 'd c-c-c-cug-climb the highest p-picket fence 
If I could b-b-b-be by her. 

If I can be by h-h-her, I '11 s-s-swim 
The r-r-r-est of life thro' th-th-thick an' thin; 
I '11 throw my overcoat away, 
An' s-s-s-stand out on the c-c-c-oldest day, 
If I can b-b-b-be by her. 

You s-s-see sh-sh-she weighs an awful pile, 
B-b-b-but I d-d-d-don't care — sh-she 's just my style, 
An' any f-f-fool could p-p-p-lainly see 
She'd look well b-b-b-by the side of me, 
If I could b-b-b-be by her. 

I b-b-b-braced right up, and had the s-s-s-and 
To ask 'er f-f-f -father f-f-f er 'er hand ; 
He said: "Wh-wh-what p-p-prospects have you got?" 
I said : " I gu-gu-guess I 've got a lot, 
If I can b-b-b-be by her." 

It's all arranged f-f-f er Christmas Day, 
Per then we 're goin' to r-r-r-run away, 
An' then s-s-some th-th-thing that cu-cu-could n't be 
At all b-b-b-efore will then, you s-s-see, 
B-b-b-because I '11 b-b-b-be by her. 

Ben King. 



BUT THEN 

JOHN OSWALD McGUFFW he wanted to die 
'Nd bring his career to an end; 
0' course, well — he did n't say no thin' to me — 

But that 's what he told every friend. 
So one afternoon he went down to the pier, 
'N"d folks saw him actin' most terribly queer; 
He prayed 'nd he sung, put his hand up to cough 
'An every one thought he was goin' to jump off — 



POETRY 201 

But he did n't. 

He may jump to-morrer 

Mornin' at ten — 

Said he was goin' to 

Try it again. 

But then — 

John Oswald he said he was tired of the earth — 

Of its turmoil and struggle and strife, 
'Nd he made up his mind a long time ago 

He was just bound to take his own life ; 
'Nd the very next time 'at he started to shave, 
Determined to die, he was goin' f be brave ; 
So he stood up 'nd flourished the knife in despair, 
'Nd every one thought 'at he 'd kill himself there — 

But he did n't. 

He says 'at to-morrer 

Mornin' at ten 

He has a notion to 

Try it again. 

But then — 

He went and bought arsenic, bought Paris green, 

'Nd cobalt 'nd all kinds of stuff 
'Nd he took great delight in leaving it 'round — 

Of course that was done for a bluff. 
Then he rigged up his room with a horrible thing, 
That would blow his head off by pullin' a string. 
Folks heard the explosion — rushed up — on his bed 
John Oswald was lyin'. They whispered, "He 's dead" — 

But he was n't. 

He riz up an' said: 

He could n't say when 

He 'd fully decide to 

Try it again. 

But then — 

Ben King. 

ACCOUNTABILITY * 

FOLKS ain't got no right to censuah othah folks about 
dey habits; 
Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtails made de bobtails fu' 
de rabbits. 

* Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. 



202 SELECTED READINGS 

Him dat built de great big mountains hollered out de little 

valleys, 
Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't shamed to 

make de alleys. 

We is all constructed diff'ent, d' ain't no two of us de same ; 
!We cain't he'p ouah likes an' dislikes, ef we 'se bad we ain't 

to blame. 
Ef we'se good, we needn't show off, case you bet it ain't 

ouah doin' 
We gits into suttain channels dat we jes' cain't he'p pu'suin'. 

But we all fits into places dat no othah ones could fill, 
An' we does the things we has to, big er little, good er ill. 
John cain't tek de place o' Henry, Su an' Sally ain't alike; 
Bass ain't nuthin' like a suckah, chub ain't nuthin' like a 
pike. 

When you come to think about it, how it 's all planned out 

it 's splendid. 
Nuthin's done er evah happens, 'dout hit's somefin' dat's 

intended ; 
Don't keer whut you does, you has to, an' hit sholy beats de 

dickens, — 
Viney, go put on de kittle, I got one o' mastah's chickens. 

Paul Laurence Dunbar. 



WHEN MALINDY SINGS* 

G'WAY an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy — ■ 
Put dat music book away; 
What 'd de use to keep on tryin' ? 

Ef you practise twell you 're gray, 
You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin' 

Lak de ones dat rants and rings 
E'om de kitchen to de big woods 
When Malindy sings. 

You ain't got de nachel o'gans 

Fu' to make de soun' come right, 

You ain't got de tu'ns an' twistin's 
Fu to make it sweet an' light. 

* Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. 



POETRY 203 

Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy, 

An' I 'm tellin' you f u' true, 
When hit comes to raal right singin', 

'Tain't no easy thing to do. 

Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah, 

Lookin' at de lines an' dots, 
When dey ain't no one kin sense it, 

An' de chune comes in, in spots; 
But fu' real melojous music, 

Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings, 
Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me 

When Malindy sings. 

Ain't you nevah hyeah'd Malindy? 

Blessed soul, tek up de cross ! 
Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey? 

Well, you don't know whut you los\ 
Y' ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin', 

Bobins, la'ks, an' all dem things, 
Hush dey moufs an' hides dey faces 

When Malindy sings. 

Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin', 

Lay his fiddle on de she'f ; 
Mockin'-bird quit tryin' to whistle, 

'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f. 
Folks a-playin' on de banjo 

Draps dey fingahs on de strings — 
Bless yo' soul — f u'gits to move 'em, 

When Malindy sings. 

She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs, 

" Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah 
Sinnahs' tremblin' steps and voices, 

Timid-lak a-drawin' neah; 
Den she tu'ns to " Bock of Ages," 

Simply to de cross she clings, 
An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin' 

When Malindy sings. 

Who dat says dat humble praises 

Wif de Master nevah counts? 
Hush yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music, 

Ez hit rises up an' mounts — 



204 SELECTED READINGS 

Floatin' by de hills an' valleys, - 

Way above dis buryin' sod, 
Ez hit makes its way in glory 

To de very gates of God! 

Oh, hit 's sweetah dan de music 

Of an edicated band; 
An' hit's dearah dan de battle's 

Song of triumph in de Ian'. 
It seems holier dan evenin' 

When de solemn chu'ch bell rings, 
Ez I sit an' ea'mly listen 

While Malindy sings. 

Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me! 

Mandy, mek dat chile keep still; 
Don't you hyeah de echoes callin' 

Fom de valley to de hill? 
Let me listen, I can hyeah it, 

Th'oo de bresh of angels' wings, 
Sof an' sweet, " Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," 

Ez Malindy sings. 

Paul Laurence Dunbar. 



ANGELINA * 

WHEN" de fiddle gits to singin' out a oP Vahginny reel, 
An' you 'mence to feel a ticklin' in yo' toe an' in 

yo' heel; 
Ef you t'ink you got 'uligion an' you wants to keep it, too, 
You jes' bettah tek a hint an' git yo'self clean out o' view. 
Case de time is mighty temptin' when de chune is in de 

swing 
Fu' a darky, saint or sinner man, to cut de pigeon-wing. 
An' }'ou couldn't he'p fom dancin' ef yo' feet was boun' 

wif twine, 
When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. 

Don't you know Miss Angelina? She's de da'lin of de 

place. 
W'y, de ain't no high-toned lady wif sich mannahs and sich 

grace. 

* Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. 



POETRY 205 

She kin move across de cabin, wif its planks all rough an' wo', 
Jes' de same 's ef she was dancin' on ol' mistus' ball-room flo'. 
Fact is, you do' see no cabin — evaht'ing you see look grand, 
An' dat one ol' squeaky fiddle soun' to you jes' lak a ban'; 
Cotton britches look lak broadclof an' a linsey dress look 

fine, 
When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. 

Some folks say dat dancin' 's sinful, an' de blessed Lawd, 

dey say, 
Gwine to punish us fu' steppin' w'en we hyeah de music 

play. 
But I tell you I don't b'lieve it, fu' de Lawd is wise an' good, 
An' he made de banjo's metal an' he made de fiddle's wood, 
An' he made de music in dem, so I don' quite t'ink he'll 

keer 
Ef our feet keep time a little to de melodies we hyeah. 
Wy, dey's somep'n' downright holy in de way our faces 

shine, 
When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. 

Angelina steps so gentle, Angelina bows so low, 

An' she lif huh sku't so dainty dat huh shoetop skacely 

show: 
An' dem teef o' huh'n a-shinin', ez she tek you by de han' — 
Go 'way, people, d'ain't anothah sich a lady in de Ian' ! 
When she's movin' thoo de figgers er a-dancin' by huhse'f, 
Folks jes' stan' stock-still a-sta'in', an' dey mos' nigh hols' 

dey bref; 
An' de young mens, dey's a-sayin', "I's gwine mek dat 

damsel mine," 
When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. 

Paul Laurence Dunbar. 



IN THE MORNIN'* 

LIAS! 'Lias! Bless de Lawd! 
Don't you know de day's erbroad? 
If you don' git up, you scamp, 
'De/ll be trouble in dis camp. 

Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. 



206 SELECTED READINGS 

T'ink I gwine to let you sleep 
Wile I maks yo' boa'd an' keep? 
Dat's a putty howdy-do. 
Don' you hyeah me, 'Lias — you ? 

Bet ef I come 'crost dis no' 
You won't find no time to sno\ 
Da3 r light all a-shinin' in 
Wile you sleep — w'y hit's a sin! 
Ain't de can'le light enough 
To bu'n out widout a snuff, 
But you go de mo'nin' thoo 
Bu'nin' up de daylight too? 

'Lias ! Don' you hyeah me call ? 
No use tu'nin' to'ds de wall, 
I kin hyeah dat mattuss squeak; 
Don' you hyeah me w'en I speak? 
Dis hyeah clock done struck off six — 
Car'line, bring me dem ah sticks. 
Oh, you down, suh; huh! you down — 
Look hyeah — don' you daih to frown. 

Ma'ch yo'se'f an' wash yo' face; 
Don' you splattah all de place; 
I got somep'n else to do 
'Sides jes' cleanin' afteh you. 
Tek dat comb an' fix yo' haid — 
Looks jes' lak a feddah baid. 
Look hyeah, boy ! I let you see, 
You sha'n't roll yo' eyes at me. 

Come hyeah; bring me dat ah strap! 
Boy ! I '11 whup you 'twell you drap ; 
You done felt yo'se'f too strong; 
An' you sholy got me wrong. 
Set down at dat table, thaih; 
Jes' you whimpah ef you daih! 
Evah mo'nin' on dis place 
Seem lak I mus' lose my grace. 

Fol' yo' han's an' bow yo' haid — 
Wait until de blessin' 's said ; 
" Lawd have mussy on ouah souls " 
(Don' you daih to tech dem rolls — ) 






POETRY 207 

" Bless de food we 'se gwine to eat " 
(You set still, I see yo' feet; 
You jes' try dat trick agin!) 
" Gin us peace an' joy. Amen ! " 

Paul Laubence Dunbar. 



ENCOURAGEMENT * 

WHO dat knockin' at de do'? 
Why, Ike Johnson, — yes, f u' sho' ! 
Come in, Ike. I's mightly glad 
You come down. I fought you 's mad 
At me 'bout de othah night, 
An' was stayin' way fu spite. 
Say, now, was you mad fu' true 
Wen I kin' o' laughed at you? 

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. 

'Tain't no use a-lookin' sad, 

An' a-mekin' out you 's mad ; 

Ef you's gwine to be so glum, 

Wondah why you evah come. 

I don't lak nobidy 'roun' 

Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown, — 

Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce ! 

Cain't you talk ? I tol' you once, 

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. 

Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night? 
Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right. 
I's done all dat I kin do, — 
Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you; 
Reckon I'd 'a' bettah wo' 
My ol' ragged calico. 
Aftah all de pains I 's took, 
Can't you tell me how I look? 

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. 

Bless my soul ! I 'mos' f u'got 
Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott. 
Don't you know, come Thu'sday night, 
She gwine ma'y Lucius White? 

* Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. 



208 



SELECTED READINGS 



Miss Lize say I alius wuh 
Heap sight laklier 'n huh; 
An' she '11 git me somep'n new, 
Ef I wants to ma'y too. 
Speak up, Ike, an' 



spress yo'se'f. 

I could ma'y in a week, 
Ef de man I wants 'ud speak. 
Tildy's presents '11 be fine, 
But dey wouldn't ekal mine. 
Him whut gits me fu' a wife 
? L1 be proud, you bet yo' life. 
I's had offers; some ain't quit; 
But I has n't ma'ied yit ! 

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. 

Ike, I loves you, — yes, I does; 
You 's my choice, and alius was. 
Laffin' at you ain't no harm. — 
Go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm? 
Hug me closer — dali, dat's right! 
Was n't you a awful sight, 
Havin' me to baig you so? 
Now ax whut you want to know, — 

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. 

Paul Laurence Dunbar. 



A COQUETTE CONQUERED* 

YES, my ha't's ez ha'd ez stone — 
Go 'way, Sam, an' lemme 'lone. 
No ; I ain't gwine to change my min' — 
Ain't gwine ma'y you — nuffin' de kin\ 

Phiny loves you true an' deah? 
Go ma'y Phiny; whut I keer? 
Oh, you needn't mou'n an' cry — 
I don't keer how soon you die. 

Got a present! Whut you got? 
Somef'n fu' de pan er pot! 
Huh! yo' sass do sholy beat — 
Think I don't git 'nough to eat? 

Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. 



POETRY 213 

"The ill-timed truth we might have kept — 

Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? 

The word we had not sense to say — 
Who knows how grandly it had rung ? 

" Our faults no tenderness should ask, 

The chastening stripes must cleanse them all ; 

But for our blunders — oh, in shame 
Before the eyes of Heaven we fall. 

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; 

Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool 
That did his will; but Thou, Lord, 

Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 

The room was hushed; in silence rose 

The King, and sought his gardens cool, 

And walked apart, and murmured low, 
" Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 

Edwabd Rowland Sill. 



OPPORTUNITY * 

THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:—- 
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; 
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged 
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords 
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner 
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. 

A craven hung along the battle's edge, 
And thought, " Had I a sword of keener steel — 
That blue blade that the king's son bears — but this 
Blunt thing — ! " he snapped and flung it from his hand, 
And lowering crept away and left the field. 

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, 

And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, 

Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, 

And ran and snatched it, and with battle shout 

Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down, 

And saved a great cause that heroic day. 

Edward Rowland Sill. 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. 



214 SELECTED READINGS 



OPPORTUNITY 

MASTEE of human destinies am I! 
Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait. 
Cities and fields I walk ; I penetrate 
Deserts and seas remote, and passing by 
Hovel and mart and palace — soon or late 
I knock unbidden once at every gate! 

" If sleeping, wake — if feasting, rise before 
I turn away. It is the hour of fate, 
And they who follow me reach every state 
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe 
Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, 
Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, 
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore. 
I answer not, and I return no more ! " 

John James Ingalls. 



« SWEET-THING" JANE 

WHEN somebody comes a-tripping down, 
The winds all at play with her hair and gown; 
The very same winds that are just too lazy 
To lift a leaf or swing a daisy, — 
Then hold your heart with might and main; 
She is crossing the meadow, " Sweet-Thing " Jane. 

She always chooses the cool of the day, 

The way down to Lovetown, that ? s her way ; 

She knows very well (what is well worth knowing) 

There 's only one road — the road she is going ; 

And she knows she is sweet as a rose in the rain, 

And she knows — she will tell you — " Sweet-Thing " Jane. 

A light will burn in the blue of her eye, 

Like the star lit first in the evening sky ; 

And over her lips will bubble the laughter 

The brooks in the sun go running after; 

You will see, you will hear, at the gate in the lane, 

While slowly it opens to " Sweet-Thing " Jane. 



POETRY 215 

You will open it wide, then what will you do? 

Why, you will be off for Lovetown too. 

The cool of the day is your lovers' weather, 

And all go to Lovetown two together. 

You may hold your heart with might and main, 

She will have it at last, will " Sweet-Thing " Jane. 

John Vance Cheney. 



THE HAPPIEST HEART 

WHO drives the horses of the sun 
Shall lord it but a day; 
Better the lowly deed were done, 
And keep the humble way. 

The rust will find the sword of fame, 

The dust will hide the crown; 
Ay, none shall nail so high his name 

Time will not tear it down. 

The happiest heart that ever beat 

Was in some quiet breast 
That found the common daylight sweet, 

And left to Heaven the rest 

John Vance Cheney. 



EL CAMINO REAL 

ALL in the golden weather, forth let us ride to-day, 
You and I together on the King's Highway, 
The blue skies above us, and below the shining sea; 
There's many a road to travel, but it's this road for me. 

It's a long road and sunny, and the fairest in the world. 
There are peaks that rise above it in their snowy mantles 

curled. 
And it leads from the mountains through a hedge of 

charparral, 
Down to the waters where the sea gulls call. 

It 's a long road and sunny, it 's a long road and old, 
And the brown padres made it for the flocks of the fold; 
They made it for the sandals of the sinner-folk that trod 
From the fields in the open to the shelter-house of God. 



216 SELECTED READINGS 

They made it for the sandals of the sinner-folk of old; 
Now the flocks they are scattered and death keeps the fold; 
But you and I together we will take the road to-day, 
With the breath in our nostrils, on the King's Highway. 

We will take the road together through the morning's golden 

glow, 
And we '11 dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long 

ago; 
We will stop at the missions where the sleeping padres lay, 
And we '11 bend a knee above them for their souls' sake to 

pray. 

We'll ride through the valleys where the blossom's on the 

tree, 
Through the orchards and the meadows with the bird and 

the bee, 
And we '11 take the rising hills where the manzanitas grow, 
Past the gray trails of waterfalls where blue violets blow. 

Old Conquistadores, brown priests, and all, 
Give us your ghosts for company when night begins to fall ; 
There 's many a road to travel, but it 's this road to-day, 
With the breath of God about us on the King's Highway. 

John S. M'Groarty. 

A THEME* 

"i^l IVE me a theme," the little poet cried, 
VX " And I will do my part." 
" 'T is not a theme you need," the world replied, 
"You need a heart." 

Richard Watson Gilder. 



THE TWO MYSTERIES! 

WE know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and 
still; 
The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and 

chill; 
The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and 

call; 
The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all. 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co., publishers of Mr. Gilder's works. 
t From "Poems and Verses.". Used by permission. 



POETRY 217 

We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain ; 
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; 
We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go, 
Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do not know. 

But this we know : Our loved and dead, if they should come 

this day — 
Should come and ask us, "What is life ? " — not one of us 

could say. 
Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be ; 
Yet oh, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see ! 

Then might they say, — these vanished ones, — and blessed 

is the thought, 
" So death is sweet to us, beloved ! though we may show you 

naught ; 
We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death — 
Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath." 

The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, 
So those who enter death must go as little children sent. 
Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; 
And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. 

Maky Mapes Dodge. 



THE CHEER OF THOSE WHO SPEAK ENGLISH 

THE playground is heavy with silence, 
The match is almost done, 
The boys in the lengthening shadows 
Work hard for one more run — 
It comes ; and the field is a-twinkle 
With happy arms in air, 
While over the ground 
Rolls the masterful sound 
Of victory revelling there : 
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! 

Three cheers, and a tiger, too, 
For the match we have won 
And each sturdy son 
Who carried the victory through ! 
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! 



218 SELECTED READINGS 

With clear voices uptossed 
For the side that has lost, 
And one cheer more 
For those winning before 
And all who shall ever win : 
The cry that our boys send in — 
The cheer of the boys who speak English I 



The ships-of-the-line beat to quarters, 

The drum and bugle sound, 
The lanterns of battle are lighted, 

Cast off! Provide! goes round; 
But ere the shrill order is given 
For broadsides hot with hate, 
Far over the sea 
Eings hearty and free 
Defiance to every fate: 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 

Three cheers, and a tiger, too, 
For the fight to be won 
And each sturdy son 
Who '11 carry the victory through ! 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 
With the shout of the fleet 
For foes doomed to defeat, 
And one cheer more 
For those winning before, 
And all who shall win again: 
This is the cry of the men — 
The cheer of the men who speak English I 



The blare of the battle is over; 

The Flag we love flies on; 
The sailors in sorrowful quiet 

Look down on comrades gone ; 
The tremulous prayers are ended; 

The sea obtains its dead ; — 
Or ever the wave 
Eipples over their grave, 

One staunch good-bye is said : 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 



POETRY 219 

Three cheers, and a tiger, too, 
For the men who have won, 
For each sturdy son 
Who gave up his life to be true! 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 
With the shout of the host 
For the brothers we 've lost, 
And one cheer more 
For those falling before 
And those who have yet to fall: 
This is the cry of us all — 
The cheer of the folk who speak English! 

Wallace Kice. 



NASTURCHUMS 

I LIKE to watch nasturchums grow 
Where nothin' else '11 raise a bud ! 
They fight the fiercest winds that blow 
An' don't care if it 's sand or mud 
They 're growing in. They 're there to make 

Somebody glad, an' so they just 
Keep spreadin' out, an' laugh an' shake 

Themselves to bloom, because they must ! 

That 's why I like 'em ! Take a rose, 

You got to tend it like a child — • 
Excep' the brier ones, an' those 

Don't do so well, if they are wild. 
An' hollyhocks '11 shrivel up 

If they don't get enough o' rain — 
An' give 'em too much by a cup 

An' they act like this life 's in vain. 

But them nasturchums ! Say, they wear 

A sort o' smile, that seems to say 
Come sun, come rain, they never care, 

They got to grow up anyway ! 
No coaxin' needed — not a mite. 

They bloom the same for me as you, 
An' it 's a mighty pretty sight 

To see 'em noddin' howdy do. 



220 SELECTED READINGS 

Well, there 's folks like 'em — just the same 

As them nasturchums is, I say, 
There 's plenty people I could name 

That live nasturchums lives to-day, 
Not hollerin' for sun or rain, 

But goin' cheerfully ahead, 
Like them nasturchums down the lane 

All understands they 've got to spread. 

You pull a pansy off, an' then 

That ends the pansy for all time, 
Nasturchums, though, they bloom again 

An' look for windows they can climb 
Up to, an' tap again' the pane 

An' beg some one to take 'em in. 
Well, in life's sunshine or its rain 

Some people is nasturchums' kin. 

The more you take, the more they give 

An' get the gladder all the while ; 
It seems as if they only live 

To give their blossoms with a smile. 
I like to watch nasturchums grow 

With blossoms noddin' from each stem, 
An', as I say, most of us know 

A lot o' folks that 's just like them. 

Wilbur D. Nesbit. 



WITH A POSY FROM SHOTTERY 

[The flowers named in this poem are all sung of by Shakespeare and 
all grow about Anne Hathaway's cottage.] 

IN" Shottery the posies nod and blow 
And marigolds and phlox stand all arow, 
The fields with daisies pied 
Eeach out on either side 
Just as they did those years and years ago. 

The banks with spicy wild thyme thickly set, 
The cowslips and the nodding violet, 

And daffodils that rise 

Before the swallow flies 
Delight us with their olden beauty yet. 



POETRY 221 

Across the fields comes drifting fair and fine 
The fragrance of some dew-kissed, flowering vine, 

And at the meadow's edge 

There grows a scented hedge 
Of sweet musk-roses and of eglantine. 

Here in the heart of all the bud and bloom, 
Through drowsy summer days of rare perfume, 

The little cottage stands 

Where once her fair white hands 
Mocked sunbeams that had strayed into the room. 

And on the step whereby this posy grew 
Will Shakespeare often sat himself to woo, 

Or humming soft refrains 

Strolled through the winding lanes 
While dreaming of the deeds that he would do. 

This posy — withered now, and dead and brown — 
May well have sprung from those that Anne flung down 

From out her casement there, 

For Will to catch and wear 
What time he fared away to London Town. 

In Shottery are narrow, flowered ways 

Where cuckoo buds glow in the twilight haze — 

But one stands, musing on 

The flowers that are gone, 
The ones that bloomed in Shakespeare's yesterdays. 

Wilbur D. Nesbit. 



THE MAN WITH THE HOE* 

BOWED by the weight of centuries he leans 
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, 
The emptiness of ages in his face, 
And on his back the burden of the world. 
Who made him dead to rapture and despair, 
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, 
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox ? 
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw ? 
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow ? 
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain ? 

* By permission of the author and the publishers, Doubleday, McClure & Co. 



%&% SELECTED READINGS 

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave 

To have dominion over sea and land ; 

To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; 

To feel the passion of Eternity? 

Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns 

And pillared the blue firmament with light? 

Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf 

There is no shape more terrible than this — 

More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed- 

More filled with signs and portents for the soul — 

More fraught with menace to the universe. 

What gulfs between him and the seraphim \ 

Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him 

Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? 

What the long stretches of the peaks of song, 

The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? 

Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; 

Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; 

Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, 

Plundered, profaned, and disinherited, 

Cries protest to the Judges of the World, 

A protest that is also prophecy. 

masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, 

Is this the handiwork you give to God, 

This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? 

How will you ever straighten up this shape ; 

Touch it again with immortality; 

Give back the upward looking and the light; 

Eebuild in it the music and the dream ; 

Make right the immemorial infamies, 

Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes ? 

masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, 
How will the Future reckon with this Man ? 
How answer his brute question in that hour 
AVhen whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? 
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — • 
With those who shaped him to the thing he is — 
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, 
After the silence of the centuries ? 

Edwin Markham. 



POETRY 223 



DE HABITANT* 



DE place I get born, me, is up on de reever 
Near foot of de rapide dat 's call Cheval Blanc. 
Beeg mountain behin' it, so high you can't climb it 
An' whole place she 's meebe two honder arpent. 

De fader of me, he was habitant farmer, 
Ma gran'fader too, an' hees fader also. 

Dey don't mak' no monee, but dat is n't f onny 

For it 's not easy get ev'ryt'ing, you mus' know — 

All de sam' dere is somet'ing dey got ev'ryboddy, 

Dat 's plaintee good healt', wat de monee can't geev, 

So I 'm workin' away dere, an' happy for stay dere 
On farm by de reever, so long I was leev. 

! dat was de place w'en de spring tarn she 's comin', 
Wen snow go away, an' de sky is all blue — 

Wen ice lef ' de water, an' sun is get hotter 

An' back on de medder is sing de gou-glou — 

Wen small sheep is firs' comin' out on de pasture, 
Deir nice leetle tail stickin' up on deir back, 

Dey ronne wit' deir moder, an' play wit' each oder 
An' jomp all de tarn jus' de sam' dey was crack. 

An' ole cow also, she 's glad winter is over, 

So she kick herse'f up, an' start off on de race 

Wit' de two-year-ole heifer, dat 's purty soon lef her, 
Wy ev'ryt'ing 's crazee all over de place ! 

An' down on de reever de wil' duck is quackin' 
Along by de shore leetle san' piper ronne — 

De bullfrog he 's gr-rompin' an' dore is jompin' — 
Dey all got deir own way for mak' it de fonne. 

But spring 's in beeg hurry, an' don't stay long wit' us, 
An' firs' f ing we know, she go off till nex' year, 

Den bee commence hummin', for summer is comin', 
An' purty soon corn 's gettin' ripe on de ear. 

Dat 's very nice tarn for wake up on de morning 
An' lissen de rossignol sing ev'ry place, 

Feel sout' win' a-blowin', see clover a-growin', 
An' allde worl' laughin' itself on de face. 

* Copyright G. P. Putnam's Sons. Used by permission. 



224. SELECTED READINGS 

Mos' ev'ry day raf it is pass on de rapide, 
De voyageurs singin' some ole chanson 

'Bout girl down de reever — too bad dey mus' leave her, 
But comin' back soon wit' beaucoup d'argent. 

An 5 den w'en de fall an' de winter come roun' us 
An' bird of de summer is all fly away, 

Wen mebbe she 's snowin' an' nort' win' is blowin* 
An' night is mos' free tarn so long as de day, 

You fink it was bodder de habitant farmer? 

Not at all — he is happy an' feel satisfy, 
An' cole may las' good w'ile, so long as de wood-pile 

Is ready for burn on de stove by-an'-by. 

Wen I got plaintee hay put away on de stable 

So de sheep an' de cow, dey got no chance to freeze, 

An' de hen all togedder — I don't min' de wedder — 
De norf win' may blow jus' so moche as she please. 



An' some cole winter night how I wish you can see us, 
Wen I smoke on de pipe, an' de ole woman sew 

By de stove of T'ree Eeever — ma wife's fader geev her 
On day we get marry, dat 's long tarn ago — 

De boy an' de girl, dey was readin' it 's lesson, 
De cat on de corner she 's bite heem de pup, 

Ole " Carleau " he 's snorin' an' beeg stove is roarin' 
So loud dat I 'm scare purty soon she bus' up. 

Philomene — dat 's de oldes' — is sit on de winder 
An' kip jus' so quiet lak wan leetle mouse, 

She say de more finer moon never was shiner — 
Very fonny, for moon is n't dat side de house. 

But purty soon den, we hear foot on de outside, 
An' some wan is place it hees han' on de latch, 

Dat 's Isidore Goulay, las' fall on de Brule 

He 's tak' it firs' prize on de grand ploughin' match. 

Ha ! ha ! Philomene ! — dat was smart trick you play us. 

Come help de young feller tak' snow from hees neck, 
Dere 's not' ing for hinder you come off de winder 

W'en moon you was look for is come, I expec' — 



POETRY 225 

Isidore, he is tole us de news on de parish 

'Bout hees Lajeunesse Colt — travel two-forty, sure, 

'Bout Jeremie Choquette, come back from Woonsocket, 
An' free new leetle twin on Madame Vaillancour. 

But nine o'clock strike, an' de chil'ren is sleepy, 
Mese'f an' ole woman can't stay up no more ; 

So alone by de fire — 'cos dey say dey ain't tire — 
We lef' Philomene an' de young Isidore. 

I s'pose dey be talkin' beeg lot on de kitchen 

'Bout all de nice moon dey was see on de sky, 

For Philomene 's takin' long tarn get awaken 
Nex' day, she 's so sleepy on bote of de eye. 

Dat's wan of dem tings, ev'ry tarn on de fashion, 
An' 'bout nices' t'ing dat was never be seen. 

Got no t'ing for say, me — I spark it sam' way, me 
Wen I go see de moder ma girl Philomene. 

We leev very quiet 'way back on de contree, 

Don't put on sam' style lak de big village, 

W'en we don't get de monee you t'ink dat is fonny 
An' mak' plaintee sport on de Bottes Sauvages. 

But I tole you — dat 's true — I don't go on de city 
If you geev de fine house an' beaucoup d'argent — 

I rader be stay, me, an' spen' de las' day, me 

On farm by de rapide dat 's call Cheval Blanc. 

William Henry Drummond. 



MY SHIPS 

IP all the ships I have at sea 
Should come a-sailing home to me, 
Ah, well ! the harbor could not hold 
So many sails as there would be 
In all my ships now out at sea. 

If half the ships I have at sea 

Should come a-sailing home to me, 

Ah, well ! I should have wealth as great 
As any king who sits in state, 

So rich the treasures there would be 

In half my ships now out at sea. 
15 



226 SELECTED READINGS 

If just one ship I have at sea 
Should come a-sailing home to me, 

Ah, well ! the storm clouds then might frown; 

For, if the others all went down, 
Still rich, and proud, and glad I 'd be 
If that one ship came home to me. 

If that one ship went down at sea, 

And all the others came to me 

Weighted down with wealth untold, 
"With glory, honor, riches, gold; 

The poorest soul on earth I ? d be 

If that one ship came not to me. 

Oh, skies be calm, oh, winds blow free, 

Blow all my ships safe home to me; 
But if thou sendest some a-wreck, 
To nevermore come sailing back, 

Send any, all that skim the sea, 

But bring that one ship home to me. 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 



CARCASSONNE 

Translated from the French 

HOW old I am ! I ? m eighty year ! 
I 've worked both hard and long. 
Yet, patient as my life has been, 
One dearest sight I have not seen, — 

It almost seems a wrong : 
A dream I had when life was new — 
Alas, our dreams ! they come not true ; 
I thought to see fair Carcassonne ! 
I have not seen fair Carcassonne ! 

One sees it dimly from the height 

Beyond the mountain blue ; 
Fain would I walk five weary leagues — 
I do not mind the road's fatigues — 

Through morn and evening dew; 
But bitter frosts would fall at night, 
And on the grapes that yellow blight; 
I could not go to Carcassonne, 
I never went to Carcassonne. 



POETRY 227 

They say it is as gay all times 

As holidays at home ; 
The gentles ride in gay attire, 
And in the sun each gilded spire 

Shoots up like those of Eome ! 
The Bishop the procession leads, 
The generals curb their prancing steeds — 

Alas ! I know not Carcassonne ! 

Alas ! I saw not Carcassonne ! 

Our Vicar 's right ; he preaches loud, 

And bids us to beware. 
He says : " 0, guard the weakest part, 
And most the traitor in the heart, 

Against ambition's snare ! " 
Perhaps in autumn I can find 
Two sunny days with gentle wind; 

I then could go to Carcassonne, 

I still could go to Carcassonne. 

My God and Father ! pardon me 

If this my wish offends ! 
One sees some hope more high than he, 
In age, as in his infancy, 

To which his heart ascends ! 
My wife, my son, have seen Narbonne, 
My grandson went to Perpignan; 

But I have not seen Carcassonne, 

I never have seen Carcassonne. 

Thus sighed a peasant, bent with age, 

Half dreaming in his chair. 
I said, " My friend, come go with me 
To-morrow; then your eyes shall see 

Those sights that seem so fair." 
That night there came, for passing soul, 
The church bell's low and solemn toll I 

He never saw gay Carcassonne. 

Who has not known a Carcassonne? 

M. E. W. Sherwood. 



228 SELECTED READINGS 



"ONE, TWO, THREE"* 

IT was an old, old, old, old lady 
And a boy who was half -past three, 
And the way that they played together 
Was beautiful to see. 

She could n't go romping and jumping, 
And the boy, no more could he; 

For he was a thin little fellow, 

With a thin little twisted knee. 

They sat in the yellow sunlight, 

Out under the maple tree, 
And the game that they played I '11 tell you, 

Just as it was told to me. 

It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing, 

Though you 'd never have known it to be — 

With an old, old, old, old lady 

And a boy with a twisted knee. 

The boy would bend his face down 
On his one little sound right knee 

And he 'd guess where she was hiding, 
In guesses One, Two, Three. 

" You 're in the china closet ! " 

He would laugh and cry with glee. 

It was n't the china closet, 

But he still had Two and Three. 

" You are up in papa's big bedroom, 

In the chest with the queer old key " ; 

And she said, " You are warm and warmer, 
But you are not quite right," said she. 

" It can't be the little cupboard 

Where mamma's things used to be, 

So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma ! " 
And he found her with his Three. 

* Reprinted by permission from " Poems of H. C. Bunner" Copyright, 1884, 
1892, 1896, 1899, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



POETRY 229 

Then she covered her face with her fingers, 
That were wrinkled and white and wee, 

And she guessed where the boy was hiding, 
With a One and a Two and a Three. 

And they never had stirred from their places 

Right under the maple tree — 
This old, old, old, old lady 

And the boy with the lame little knee — 
This dear, dear, dear, old lady 

And the boy who was half -past three. 

H. C. Bunner. 



PROVENQAL LOVERS* 

WITHIN" the garden of Beaucaire 
He met her by a secret stair, — 
The night was centuries ago. 
Said Aucassin, " My love, my pet, 
These old confessors vex me so ! 
They threaten all the pains of hell 
Unless I give you up, ma belle "; 
Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 

" Now, who should there in heaven be 
To fill your place, ma tres-douce mie? 
To reach that spot I little care ! 
There all the droning priests are met; 
All the old cripples, too, are there 
That unto shrines and altars cling 
To filch the Peter-pence we bring " ; 
Said Aucassin to Mcolette. 

" There are the barefoot monks and friars 
With gowns well tattered by the briars, 
The saints who lift their eyes and whine; 
I like them not — a starveling set ! 
Who 'd care with folk like these to dine ? 
The other road 'twere just as well 
That you and I should take, ma belle! " 
Said Aucassin to Mcolette. 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co, 



230 SELECTED READINGS 

" To purgatory I would go 
With pleasant comrades whom we know, 
Eair scholars, minstrels, lusty knights 
Whose deeds the land will not forget, 
The captains of a hundred fights, 
The men of valor and degree ; 
We '11 join that gallant company ! " 
Said Aucassin to Mcolette. 

" There too, are jousts and joyance rare, 
And beauteous ladies debonair, 
The pretty dames, the merry brides, 
Who with their wedded lords coquette 
And have a friend or two besides, — 
And all in gold and trappings gay, 
With furs, and crests in vair and gray " ; 
Said Aucassin to Mcolette. 

" Sweet players on the cithern strings, 
And they who roam the world like kings, 
Are gathered there, so blithe and free ! 
Par die ! I M join them now, my pet, 
If you went also, ma douce mie! 
The joys of heaven I ? d forgo 
To have you with me there below ! " 
Said Aucassin to Mcolette. 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



MY ANGEL AND I 

AN angel was born in the soul of my soul ; 
His forehead shone like a lucent gem 
In its setting of golden hair; 
I felt his angelic pulses roll; 
Like the floor of the new Jerusalem, 
His bosom was white and fair. 

I said, " My angel, my youth's ideal, 

I will hold to you, though men call you unreal! 

The world said, " Let go ! " 
But I answered, "No!" 



POETRY 231 

My life, when cast on his glittering breast, 

Broke into rainbow hues whose glow 

Was marvel Ions to behold, — 

Like a sunbeam drawn from its golden rest, 

And dashed on a prism, and shattered so 

Into violet, red, and gold. 

Men said, " A dream, a fantasy wild, 

Has ravished his soul and his reason beguiled." 



'&■ 



The world said, " Let go ! " 
But I answered, " No ! " 

We slipped — my angel and I — and fell; 
The star-beams blazed from his jostled crown 
Down, down — Heaven ! how low 
We slipped together in that dark well! 
The world, passing by, looked solemnly down 
With its wise " I told you so ! " 

My angel's robe looked draggled and torn; 
But I clung to him, spite of human scorn. 

The world said, " Let go ! " 
But I answered, " No ! " 

A jar, a crash! Did a thunderbolt fall 
From the throne of God with a lightning pace, 
And strike the earth to her heart? 
My angel reeled from his castle wall, 
And fold over fold clouds muffled his face, 
Forcing us wide apart. 

I clung to his white robe with a grip 

Too strong with the strength of despair to slip. 

The world said, "Let go!" 
But I answered, " No ! " 

We swept through strange darks together so; 
Clouds big with thunder about us crashed, 
And the lightning shook its wings; 
Through all the blackness and lurid glow 
God's face — though I did not know it — flashed, 
And his hand kept the balance of things. 



232 SELECTED READINGS 

My angel, my angel, I clung to you then, 
Despite the pitiless gibes of men. 

The world said, "Let go!" 
But I answered, " No ! " 

Like the birth of a star from God's word in the night, 

The earth flashed out of the storm, all clad 

In the fresh robes of His love; 

We stood together on the height, — 

My angel and I, — serene and glad, 

With the hush of stars above. 

The world looked up with sapient eyes, 
And said, " I thought so ; you were wise ! " 

World, shall I let go? 

But the world cried, " No ! " 

Blanche Fearing. 



THE SHADOW CHILD* 

WHY do the wheels go whirring round, 
Mother, mother? 
Oh, mother, are they giants bound, 

And will they growl forever? 
Yes; fiery giants underground, 

Daughter, little daughter, 
Forever turn the wheels around 
And rumble-grumble ever. 

Why do I feel so tired each night, 

Mother, mother? 
The wheels are always buzzing bright — 

Do they grow sleepy never? 
Oh, baby thing, so soft and white, 
Daughter, little daughter, 
The big wheels grind us in their might 
And tire of grinding never. 

Why do I pick the threads all day, 

Mother, mother, 
While sunshine children are at play ? 
And must I work forever? 

* By permission of the Century Co. 



POETRY 233 

Yes, shadow child, the livelong day! 

Daughter, little daughter, 
Your hands must pick the threads away 
And feel the sunshine never. 

Why do the birds sing in the sun, 

Mother, mother, 
While all day long I run and run — 

Run with the wheels forever? 
The birds may sing till day is done, 
Daughter, little daughter — 
But with the wheels your feet must run 
From dark till dark forever. 

And is the white thread never spun, 

Mother, mother? 
And is the white cloth never done — 

For you and me done never? 
Oh yes, our threads will all be spun, 

Daughter, little daughter, 
When we lie down out in the sun 
And work no more forever. 

And when will come that happy day, 

Mother, mother? 
Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play 

Out in the sun forever? 
Nay, shadow child, we '11 rest all day, 

Daughter, little daughter, 
Where green grass grows and roses gay 
Out in the sun forever. 

Harriet Monroe. 



THE WHOLE CREATION GROANETH 

ART glad with the gladness of youth in thy veins, 
In thy hands, for the spending earth's joys and its 
gains? 
Lo! winged with storm shadows, the torturers come; 
And to-night or to-morrow thy lips shall be dumb, 
Thy hands wet with pain-thrills, thy nerves, that were strung 
Of fineness of sense, by earth's pleasures be wrung 



234 SELECTED READINGS 

With pangs the beast knows not, nor he who in tents 
Lives lone in the desert, and knoweth not whence 
The bread of to-morrow. Pain like to a mist 
Goeth up from the earth and is lost, and none wist 
Why ever it cometh, why ever it waits 
In the heart of our loves, like a foe in our gates. 

Lo! summer and sunshine are over the land, — 

Who marshalled yon billows ? What wind of command 

Drives ever their merciless march on the strand? 

Thus, dateless, relentless, the children of strife, 

None have seen, on the sun-lighted beaches of life. 

March ever the ravening billows of pain. 

heart that is breaking, go ask of the brain 

If aught of God's spending is squandered in vain? 

Yea, where is the sunshine of centuries dead? 

Yea, where are the raindrops of yesterday shed? 

God findeth anew his lost light in the force 

That holdeth the world on its resolute course, 

And surely, as surely the madness of pain 

Shall pass into wisdom, and come back again 

An angel of courage, if thou art the one 

That knoweth to deal with the lightnings that stun 

To blindness the many. A thousand shall fall 

By the waysides of life, and in helplessness call 

For the death-alms which nature gives freely to all ; 

And one, like the jewel, shall break the fierce light 

That blindeth thy vision, and flash through the night 

The colors that read us its meaning aright. 

S. Weir Mitchell. 



THE LUTE PLAYER* 

SHE was a lady great and splendid, 
I was a minstrel in her hall; 
A warrior like a prince attended 
And stayed his steed at her castle wall. 
Far had he fared to gaze upon her. 
" Oh, rest thee now, Sir Knight ! " she said. 
The warrior wooed, the warrior won her, 
In time of snowdrops they were wed. 

* By permission of the author and the publisher, John Lane Company, The Bodley 
Head. 



POETRY 235 

I made sweet music in his honor — 
And longed to strike him dead. 
I passed at midnight from her portal, 
Throughout the world till death I roam. 
Oh, let me make this Lute immortal 
With rapture of my hate and love ! 

William Watson". 



THE DAY IS DONE* 

THE day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 
As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 

That my soul cannot resist ! 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 

Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 

Through the corridors of Time: 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start; 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. 



236 SELECTED READINGS 

Who, through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares, that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

Heney W. Longfellow. 



MARGUERITE * 

Whittier's Favorite among His own Poems 

[It is not generally known that Whittier had intended publishing a 
long poem on the French neutral ; but before he had collected suffi- 
cient material, Longfellow's "Evangeline" appeared, dealing with the 
same characters.] 

THE robins sang in the orchard, the buds into blossoms 
grew; 
Little of human sorrow the buds and the robins knew! 

Sick, in an alien household, the poor French neutral lay; 
Into her lonesome garret fell the light of the April day, 

Through the dusty window, curtained by the spider's warp 

and woof, 
On the loose-laid floor of hemlock, on oaken ribs of roof, 

The bedquilt's faded patchwork, the teacups on the stand, 
The wheel with flaxen tangle, as it dropped from her sick 
hand! 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. 



POETRY 237 

What to her was the song of the robin, or warm morning 

light, 
As she lay in the trance of the dying, heedless of sound or 

sight ? 

Done was the work of her hands, she had eaten her bitter 

bread ; 
The world of the alien people lay behind her dim and dead. 

But her soul went back to its child-time; she saw the sun 

o'erflow 
With gold the basin of Minas, and set over Gasperau. 

She saw the face of her mother, she heard the song she sang ; 
And far off, faintly, slowly, the bell for vespers rang! 

By her bed the hard-faced mistress sat, smoothing the 

wrinkled sheet, 
Peering into the face so helpless, and feeling the ice-cold 

feet. 

With a vague remorse, atoning for her greed and long 

abuse, 
By care no longer heeded and pity too late for use. 

Up the stairs of the garret softly the son of the mistress 

stepped, 
Leaned over the head-board, covering his face with hia 

hands, and wept. 

Outspake the mother, who watched him sharply, with brow 

a-f rown : 
" What ! love you the Papist, the beggar, the charge of the 

town?" 

"Be she Papist or beggar who lies here, I know and God 

knows 
I love her, and fain would go with her wherever she goes! 

"0 mother! that sweet face came pleading, for love so 

athirst. 
You saw but the town-charge; I knew her God's angel at 

first." 



238 SELECTED READINGS 

Shaking her gray head, the mistress hushed down a bitter 

cry; 
And awed by the silence and shadow of death drawing nigh, 

She murmured a psalm of the Bible; but closer the young 

girl pressed, 
With the last of her life in her fingers, the cross to her 

breast. 

" My son, come away," cried the mother, her voice cruel 

grown. 
" She is joined to her idols, like Ephraim ; let her alone ! " 

But he knelt with his hand on her forehead, his lips to her 

ear, 
And he called back the soul that was passing : " Marguerite, 

do you hear ? " 

She paused on the threshold of heaven; love, pity, surprise, 
Wistful, tender, lit up for an instant the cloud of her eyes. 

With his heart on his lips he kissed her, but never her cheek 

grew red, 
And the words the living long for he spake in the ear of 

the dead. 

And the robins sang in the orchard, where buds to blossoms 

grew; 
Of the folded hands and the still face never the robins knew ! 

John GL Whittier. 



BILL AND JOE* 

COME, dear old comrade, you and I 
Will steal an hour from days gone by, 
The shining days when life was new, 
And all was bright with morning dew, — 
The lusty days of long ago, 
When you were Bill and I was Joe. 

Your name may flaunt a titled trail, 
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail; 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. 



POETRY 239 

And mine as brief appendix wear 
As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare; 
To-day old friend, remember still 
That I am Joe and you are Bill. 

You 've won the great world's envied prize, 
And grand you look in people's eyes, 
With HON. and LL.D. 
In big brave letters, fair to see, — 
Your fist, old fellow ! off they go ! 
How are you Bill? How are you Joe? 

You've won the judge's ermined robe; 
You 've taught your name to half the globe ; 
You 've sung mankind a deathless strain ; 
You've made the dead past live again: 
The world may call you what it will 
But you and I are Joe and Bill. 

The chaffing young folks stare and say, 

" See those old buffers, bent and gray ; 

They talk like fellows in their teens ! 

Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means," — 

And shake their heads; they little know 

The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe! 

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, 
While Joe sits smiling at his side; 
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill 
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame? 

A fitful tongue of leaping flame; 

A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, 

That lifts a pinch of mortal dust : 

A few swift years, and who can show 

Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe? 

The weary idol takes his stand, 

Holds out his bruised and aching hand, 

While gaping thousands come and go, — 

How vain it seems, this empty show! 

'Till all at once his pulses thrill, 

? T is poor old Joe's " God bless you, Bill ! " 



240 SELECTED READINGS 

And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
The names that pleased our mortal ears, — 
In some sweet lull of harp and song, 
For earth-born spirits none too long, — 
Just whispering of the world below, 
Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? 

No matter; while our home is here 
No sounding name is half so dear; 
When fades at length our lingering day, 
Who cares what pompous tombstones say? 
Eead on the hearts that love us still, 
Eic jacet Joe. Hie jacet Bill. 

Oliver W. Holmes. 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN* 

THE little gate was reached at last, 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
She pushed it wide, and, as she passed, 
A wistful look she backward cast, 

And said, — " Auf wiedersehen! " 

With hand on latch, a vision white 
Lingered reluctant, and again 
Half doubting if she did aright, 
Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
She said, — " Auf wiedersehen! " 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; 

I linger in delicious pain; 
Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 

Thinks she, " Auf wiedersehen!" 

'T is thirteen years : once more I press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 
I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah yes, 
I hear, "Auf wiedersehen!" 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. 



POETRY 241 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too fain, 
But these — they drew us heart to heart, 
Yet held us tenderly apart; 

She said, " Auf wiedersehen ! " 

James E. Lowell. 



IDENTITY * 

SOMEWHERE — in desolate wind-swept space — 
In Twilight-land — in No-man's-land — 
Two hurrying Shapes met face to face, 
And bade each other stand. 

" And who are you ? " cried one a-gape, 

Shuddering in the gloaming light. 
" I know not," said the second Shape, 

" I only died last night ! " 

Thomas B. Aldrich. 



ULYSSES 

IT little profits that an idle king 
By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink 
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd 
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those 
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when 
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name ; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known, — cities of men 
And manners, climates, councils, governments, 
Myself not least, but honor' d of them all, — 
And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
Par on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met; 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. 
16 



242 SELECTED READINGS 

Yet all experience is an arch where-through 

Gleams that untravelPd world, whose margin fades 

For ever and for ever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 

As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains; but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle, — 

AVell loved of me, discerning to fulfil 

This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 

A rugged people, and through soft degrees 

Subdue them to the useful and the good. 

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 

Of common duties, decent not to fail 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 

Meet adoration to my household gods, 

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; 

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me, 

That ever with a frolic welcome took 

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 

Free hearts, free foreheads, — you and I are old ; 

Old age hath yet his. honor and his toil. 

Death closes all; but something ere the end, 

Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; 

The long day wanes ; the slow moon climbs ; the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

? T is not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order, smite 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 



POETRY 243 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Though much is taken, much abides; and though 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are, — 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

Alfred Tennyson*. 

THE FIRST QUARREL 

"TT7AIT a little," you say. Wait! ... I work an' I 

VV wait to the end. 
I am all alone in the world, an' you are my only friend. 

Doctor, if you can wait, I '11 tell you the tale o' my life. 
When Harry an' I were children, he call'd me his own little 

wife; 
I was happy when I was with him, an' sorry when he was 

away, 
An' when we play'd together, I loved him better than play; 
He workt me the daisy chain — he made me the cowslip 

ball, 
He fought the boys that were rude, an' I loved him better 

than all. 
Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at home in disgrace, 
I never could quarrel with Harry — I had but to look in 

his face. 

There was a farmer in Dorset of Harry's kin, that had need 
Of a good stout lad at his farm; he sent, an' the father 

agreed ; 
So Harry was bound to the Dorsetshire farm for years an' 

for years ; 
I walk'd with him down to the quay, poor lad, an' we 

parted in tears. 
The boat was beginning to move, we heard them a-ringing 

the bell, 
" I '11 never love any but you, God bless you, my own little 

Nell." 



244 SELECTED READINGS 

And years went over till I that was little had grown so tall 
The men would say of the maids, " Our Nelly 's the flower 

of 'em all." 
I did n't take heed o' them, but I taught myself all I could 
To make a good wife for Harry, when Harry came home 

for good. 

Often I seem'd unhappy, and often as happy too, 

For I heard it abroad in the fields, "I'll never love any 

but you " ; 
" I '11 never love any but you," the morning song of the lark, 
" I '11 never love any but you," the nightingale's hymn in the 

dark. 

And Harry came home at last, but he look'd at me sidelong 

and shy, 
Yext me a bit, till he told me that so many years had gone by, 
I had grown so handsome and tall — that I might ha' forgot 

him somehow — 
For he thought — there were other lads — he was fear'd to 

look at me now. 

Hard was the frost in the field, we were married o' Christ- 
mas day, 

Married among the red berries, and all as merry as May — 

Those were the pleasant times, my house an' my man were 
my pride, 

We seem'd like ships i' the Channel a-sailing with wind an' 
tide. 

But work was scant in the Isle, tho' he tried the villages 

round, 
So Harry went over the Solent to see if work could be 

found ; 
An' he wrote : " I ha' six weeks' work, little wife, so far as 

I know; 
I '11 come for an hour to-morrow, an' kiss you before I go." 

So I set to righting the house, for wasn't he coming that 

day? 
An' I hit on an old deal-box that was push'd in a corner 

away, 
It was full of old odds an' ends, an' a letter along wi' the 

rest, 
I had better ha' put my naked hand in a hornets' nest. 



POETRY 245 

" Sweetheart " — this was the letter — this was the letter I 

read — 
" You promised to find me work near you, an' I wish I was 

dead — 
Did n't you kiss me an' promise ? You have n't done it, my 

lad, 
An' I almost died o' your going away, an' I wish that 

I had." 

I too wish that I had — in the pleasant times that had past, 
Before I quarrell'd with Harry — my quarrel — the first 
an' the last. 

For Harry came in, an' I flung him the letter that drove 

me wild, 
An' he told me all at once, as simple as any child, 
"What can it matter my lass, what I did wi' my single 

life? 
I ha' been as true to you as ever a man to his wife; 
An' she wasn't one o' the worst." "Then," I said, "I'm 

none o' the best." 
An' he smiled at me, "Ain't you, my love? Come, come, 

little wife, let it rest! 
The man isn't like the woman, no need to make such a 

stir." 
But he anger'd me all the more, an' I said, " You were keep- 
ing with her, 
When I was a-loving you all along an' the same as before." 
An' he didn't speak for a while, an' he anger'd me more 

and more. 
Then he patted my hand in his gentle way, "Let bygones 

be!" 
"Bygones! you kept yours hush'd," I said, "when you 

married me ! 
Bjrgones ma' be come-agains! ... I hate her — an' I hate 

you!" 
Ah, Harry, my man, you had better ha' beaten me black 

an' blue 
Than ha' spoken as kind as you did, when I were so crazy 

wi' spite, 
" Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill all come right." 

An' he took three turns in the rain, an' I watch'd him, an' 
when he came in 



246 SELECTED READINGS 

I felt that my heart was hard; he was all wet thro' to the 

skin, 
An' I never said "off wi' the wet," I never said "on wi' 

the dry," 
So I knew my heart was hard, when he came to bid me 

good-bye. 
"Yon said that you hated me, Ellen, hut that isn't true, 

you know; 
I am going to leave you a bit — you '11 kiss me before I go ? " 

" I had sooner be cursed than kissed ! " — I did n't know well 

what I meant, 
But I turn'd my face from him, an' he turned Ms face an' 

he went. 

And then he sent me a letter, " I 've gotten my work to do ; 
You wouldn't kiss me, my lass, an' I never loved any but 

you; 
I am sorry for all the quarrel, an' sorry for what she wrote, 
I ha' six weeks' work in Jersey, an' go to-night by the boat." 

An' the wind began to rise, an' I thought of him out at sea, 
An' I felt I had been to blame; he was always kind to me. 
" Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill all come right " — 
An' the boat went down that night — the boat went down 
that night. 

Alfred Tennyson. 
Abridged by Anna Morgan. 

THE DAFFODILS 

IWAKDEBED lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 

And twinkle on the Milky Way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 

Along the margin of a bay: 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 



POETRY 247 

The waves beside them danced, but they 

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; 
A poet could not but be gay 

In such a jocund company; 
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought. 

Eor oft, when on my couch I lie, 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 

William Wordsworth. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM 

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) 
-Z~jL Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold. 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
" What writest thou ? " The vision raised its head, 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord/' 
" And is mine one ? " said Abou. " Nay, not so," 
Eeplied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerily still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one who loves his fellow-men." 
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 
It came again with a great awakening light, 
And showed the names whom love of God had blest, 
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 

Leigh Hunt. 

CUPID SWALLOWED 

T' OTHEE day, as I was twining 
Eoses for a crown to dine in, 
What, of all things, midst the heap, 
Should I light on, fast asleep, 



248 SELECTED READINGS 

But the little desperate elf, 

The tiny traitor, — Love himself! 

By the wings I pinched him up 

Like a bee, and in a cup 

Of my wine I plunged and sank him ; 

And what d ? ye think I did ? — I drank him ! 

Faith, I thought him dead. Not he ! 

There he lives with tenfold glee; 

And now this moment, with his wings 

I feel him tickling my heart-strings. 

Leigh Hunt. 



O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

[Written as a funeral poem for Lincoln, and one of the great poems 
of the nineteenth century.] 

O CAPTAIN" ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, 
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought 
is won, 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring ; 
But heart! heart! heart! 

the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 

Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills, 

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores 

a-crowding, 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 
turning ; 
Here Captain, dear father! 

This arm beneath your head ! 

It is some dream that on the deck 
You Ve fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; 
The ship is anchor' d safe and sound, its voyage closed and 

done, 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won. 



POETRY 249 

Exult, shores, and ring, bells ! 
But I, with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Walt Whitman. 



A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER 

Excerpt from "Endymion," Book I 

A THING of beauty is a joy forever: 
Its loveliness increases; it will never 
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways 
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, 
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 
With the green world they live in; and clear rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert make 
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, 
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: 
And such, too, is the grandeur of the dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty dead; 
All lovely tales that we have heard or read: 
An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

John Keats. 



GOOD-NIGHT 

GOOD-NIGHT ? ah ! no ; the hour is ill 
Which severs those it should unite; 
Let us remain together still, 

Then it will be good-night. 



250 SELECTED READINGS 

How can I call the lone night good, 

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? 

Be it not said, thought, understood — 
Then it will be — good-night. 

To hearts which near each other move 
From evening close to morning light, 

The night is good; because, my love, 
They never say good-night. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



A' 



VERSES ON A CAT 

CAT in distress, 

Nothing more, nor less; 
Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye, 
As I am a sinner, 
It waits for some dinner 
To stuff out its own little belly. 

You would not easily guess 

All the modes of distress 
Which torture the tenants of earth; 

And the various evils, 

Which like so many devils, 
Attend the poor souls from their birth. 

Some a living require, 

And others desire 
An old fellow out of the way; 

And which is the best 

I leave to be guessed, 
For I cannot pretend to say. 

One wants society, 

Another variety, 
Others a tranquil life; 

Some want food, 

Others, as good, 
Only want a wife. 

But this poor little cat 

Only wanted a rat, 
To stuff out its own little maw ; 

And it were as good 

Some people had such food, 
To make them hold their jaw! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



POETRY 251 



DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES 

DRINK to me only with thine eyes, 
And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I '11 not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not withered be; 
But thou thereon didst only breathe 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself but thee! 
Translated by Ben Jonson from Philostratus. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 

NOVEMBER chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 
The shortening winter-day is near a close ; 

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, 

And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through 

To meet their Dad, wi' flitcherin' noise an' glee, 

And makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 
At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 



252 SELECTED READINGS 

Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, 

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, 
An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: 

The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; 
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 
Anticipation forward points the view. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey; 
An' mind their labors wi' an' eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: 
" An' ! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might; 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!'' 

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door. 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 
Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name. 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; 
A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye ; 

She, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: 

And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. 



POETRY 253 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: 
Perhaps " Dundee's " wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive " Martyrs/' worthy of the name. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high; 

Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage v 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days: 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear; 
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest: 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, 
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man 's the noblest work of God." 

Eobert Burns. 
Abridged by Anna Morgan. 

THE CHILD MUSICIAN 

HE had played for his lordship's levee, 
He had played for her ladyship's whim, 
Till the poor little head was heavy, 

And the poor little brain would swim. 



254 SELECTED READINGS 

And the face grew peaked and eerie, 

And the large eyes strange and bright, 

And they said, — too late, — " He is weary ! 
He shall rest for, at least, to-night ! " 

But at dawn, when the birds were waking, 
As they watched in the silent gloom, 

With the sound of a strained cord breaking 
A something snapped in the room. 

'T was a string of his violoncello, 

And they heard him stir in his bed : — 

" Make room for a tired little fellow, 

Kind God ! " was the last that he said. 

Austin Dobson. 



SOMEWHERE 

SOMEWHERE the spirit will come to its own, 
Through tear-mist or star-dust, from circle to zone; 
In the scent of dead roses, in winds, or in waves, 
From the gold of the sunset to flower-kissed graves. 
Sing on, and trust ever ! be steadfast ! for see ! 
The true and the lovely are allies with thee. 
Stretch up to the heights the brave toilers have trod; 
Somewhere there is recompense — everywhere God ! 

Helen Hinsdale Rich. 



ON A GRAY BIRTHDAY 

YEARS are flying! Even so 
As o'er others, must they go 
Over your dear head, and streak 
With Time's pencil your loved cheek. 

Gray must take the place of gold, 
Limbs grow feeble, passion cold; 
Through it all, dear, you and I 
Will be lovers till we die. 

And if lovers, spite of years, 
What care we for Time or tears? 
Time takes not tbe essential thing. 
Bears not love upon his wing. 



POETRY 255 

Tears are for the foolish young, 
Hearts unchastened, nerves unstrung: 
We have wept, but weep no more ; 
What's to weep for, at threescore? 

We have learned that, good or ill, 
Naught in life can quite fulfil 
What we hope or what we fear, 
Nothing 's quite worth laugh or tear. 

What seemed ill proves not so bad, 
Haply good, in russet clad; 
And the things that promised best 
Oft prove plague-gifts, gaily drest. 

Deep below the waves of fate — 
Lust, ambition, greed, and hate — 
We have found the tideless sea 
Where perpetual peace may be. 

Peace of hearts that beat as one, 
Fearing nothing, hating none, 
Closer nestling, as their day 
Slowly fades to night away. 

John Marshall. 



AMERICA 

MY country, 't is of thee, 
Sweet land of liberty, 
Of thee I sing; 
Land where my fathers died, 
Land of the pilgrims' pride, 
Prom every mountain-side 
Let freedom ring. 

My native country, thee, 
Land of the noble free, — 

Thy name I love; 
I love thy rocks and rills, 
Thy woods and templed hills; 
My heart with rapture thrills 

Like that above. 



256 SELECTED READINGS 

Let music swell the breeze, 
And ring from all the trees, 

Sweet freedom's song; 
Let mortal tongues awake, 
Let all that breathe partake, 
Let rocks their silence break, — ■ 

The sound prolong. 

Our father's God, to Thee, 
Author of liberty, 

To Thee I sing; 
Long may our land be bright 
With freedom's holy light, 
Protect us by thy might, 

Great God our King. 

S. F. Smith. 

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

OH, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 
gleaming ? — 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of 
the fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly stream- 
ing! 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; 
! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? 

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 

Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 

As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 
'T is the star-spangled banner ; long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 

A home and a country should leave us no more? 

Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollu- 
tion. 






POETRY 257 

No refuge can save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 

! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! 
Blest with vicf ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land 
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a 
nation. 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto — " In God is our trust: " 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 

Francis Scott Key. 

HOME, SWEET HOME! 

MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home ; 
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! 
There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home ! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ; 

! give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 

The birds singing gayly, that came at my call, — 

Give me them, — and the peace of mind, dearer than all ! 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! 
There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home ! 

How sweet 't is to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, 
And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile ! 
Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to roam, 
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home ! 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! 
There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home ! 

To thee I '11 return, overburdened with care ; 
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there ; 
No more from that cottage again will I roam; 
Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home. 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! 
There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home ! 

John Howard Pat- & 



258 SELECTED READINGS 



SELF-DEPENDENCE 

WEARY of myself, and sick of asking 
What I am, and what I ought to be, 
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears mc 
Forward, forward, o'er the starlit sea. 

And a look of passionate desire 

O'er the sea and to the stars I send : 

" Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me, 

Calm me, ah, compose me to the end ! 

" Ah, once moTe," I cried, " ye stars, ye waters, 
On my heart your mighty charm renew ; 
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, 
Feel my soul becoming vast like you ! " 

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, 

Over the lit sea's unquiet way, 

In the rustling night-air came the answer : 

" Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they. 

" Unaffrighted by the silence round them, 
Undistracted by the sights they see, 
These demand not that the things without them 
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 

91 And with joy the stars perform their shining, 
And the sea its long moon-silverM roll ; 
For self -poised they live, nor pine with noting 
All the fever of some differing soul. 

" Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 
In what state God's other works may be, 
In their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
These attain the mighty life you see." 

air-born voice ! long since, severely clear, 
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear : 
" Resolve to be thyself ; and know that he^ 
Who finds himself, loses his misery ! " 

Matthew Arnold. 



POETRY 259 



TO SHAKESPEARE'S LOVE 

O SWEET dead woman, who were you 
For whom my Shakespeare sighed 
In sonnets that would hold you true 
Although you lied? 

In lips that burned upon your own 

Did you not feel his breath 
Melodious with Juliet's moan 

And Egypt's death ? 

Perhaps his dream within your arms 

Gave Venus back to Greece, 
Or consecrated wanton charms 

To pure Lucrece. 

Alas, we may not know your name, 

Your station high or low; 
We hold the dead secure from blame; , 

Yet this I know : 

Your passion found some common clod 

For your embrace more meet; 
The heart that hymned a world 

You trod beneath your feet. 

And still he held his poet's pen 

To the ideal true — 
Lo, he created Imogene 

And God made you. 

Edwabd J. McPhelim. 



CLEOPATRA 

HERE, Charmian, take my bracelets; 
They bar with a purple stain 
My arms ; turn over my pillows — 

They are hot where I have lain : 
Open the lattice wider, 

A gauze o'er my bosom throw, 
And let me inhale the odors 

That over the garden blow." 



260 SELECTED READINGS 

I dreamed I was with my Antony, 

And in his arms I lay ; 
Ah, me ! the vision has vanished — » 

The music has died away : 
The flame and the perfume have perished — • 

As this spiced aromatic pastille 
That wound the blue smoke of its odor 

Is now but an ashy hill. 

Scatter upon me rose leaves, 

They cool me after my sleep, 
And with sandal odors fan me 

Till into my veins they creep ; 
Reach down the lute, and play me 

A melancholy tune, 
To rhyme with the dream that has vanished 

And the slumbering afternoon. 

There, drowsing in golden sunlight, 

Loiters the slow, smooth Nile, 
Through slender papyri, that cover 

The wary crocodile. 
The lotus lolls on the water, 

And opens its heart of gold, 
And over its broad leaf pavement 

Never a ripple is rolled. 
The twilight breeze is too lazy 

Those feathery palms to wave, 
And yon little cloud is as motionless 

As a stone above a grave. 

Ah, me! this lifeless nature 

Oppresses my heart and brain ! 
Oh ! for a storm and thunder — 

For lightning and wild fierce rain ! 
Fling down that lute — I hate it ! 

Take rather his buckler and sword, 
And crash and clash them together 

Till this sleeping world is stirred. 

Hark ! to my Indian beauty — 
My cockatoo, creamy white, 

With roses under his feathers: — 
That flashes across the light. 



POETRY 261 

Look ! Listen ! as backward and forward 

To his hoop of gold he clings, 
How he trembles with crest uplifted, 

And shrieks as he madly swings ! 
Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony ! 

Cry, " Come, my love, come home ! " 
Shriek, " Antony ! Antony ! Antony ! " 

Till he hears you even in Rome. 

There — leave me, and take from my chamber 

That stupid little gazelle, 
With its bright black eyes so meaningless, 

And its silly tinkling bell ! 
Take him, — my nerves he vexes — 

The thing without blood or brain, 
Or, by the body of Isis, 

I '11 snap his thin neck in twain ! 

Leave me to gaze on the landscape 

Mistily stretching away, 
Where the afternoon's opaline tremors 

O'er the mountains quivering play ; 
Till the fiercer splendor of sunset 

Pours from the west its fire, 
And melted, as in a crucible, 

Their earthly forms expire ; 
And the bald blear skull of the desert 

With glowing mountains is crowned, 
That burning like molten jewels 

Circle its temples round. 

I will lie and dream of the past time, 

iEons of thought away, 
And through the jungle of memory 

Loosen my fancy to play ; 
When, a smooth and velvety tiger, 

Ribbed with yellow and black, 
Supple and cushion-footed 

I wandered, where never the track 
Of a human creature had rustled 

The silence of mighty woods, 
And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom, 

I knew but the law of my moods. 



262 SELECTED READINGS 

The elephant, trumpeting, started, 

When he heard my footstep near, 
And the spotted giraffes fled wildly 

In a yellow cloud of fear. 
I sucked in the noontide splendor, 

Quivering along the glade, 
Or yawning, panting, and dreaming, 

Basked in the tamarisk shade, 
Till I heard my wild mate roaring, 

As the shadows of night came on. 
To brood in the trees' thick branches, 

And the shadow of sleep was gone ; 
Then I roused, and roared in my answer, 

And unsheathed from my cushioned feet 
My curving claws, and stretched me, 

And wandered my mate to greet. 
We toyed in the amber moonlight, 

Upon the warm flat sand, 
And struck at each other our massive arms — 

How powerful he was and grand ! 

His yellow eyes flashed fiercely 

As he crouched and gazed at me, 
And his quivering tail, like a serpent, 

Twitched .curving nervously. 
Then like a storm he seized me, 

With a wild triumphant cry, 
And we met, as two clouds in heaven 

When the thunders before them fly. 
We grappled and struggled together, 

For his love like his rage was rude ; 
And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck 

At times, in our play, drew blood. 

Often another suitor — 

For I was flexile and fair — 
Fought for me in the moonlight, 

While I lay couching there, 
Till his blood was drained by the desert ; 

And, ruffled with triumph and power, 
He licked me and lay beside me 

To breathe him a vast half-hour. 



POETRY 263 

Then down to the fountain we loitered, 

Where the antelopes come to drink; 
Like a bolt we sprang upon them, 

Ere they had time to shrink. 
We drank their blood and crushed them, 

And tore them limb from limb, 
And the hungriest lion doubted 

Ere he disputed with him. 

That was a life to live for ! 

Not this weak human life, 
With its frivolous bloodless passions, 

Its poor and petty strife! 

Come to my arms, my hero ! 

The shadows of twilight grow, 
And the tiger's ancient fierceness 

In my veins begins to flow. 
Come not cringing to sue me ! 

Take me with triumph and power, 
As a warrior storms a fortress, 

I will not shrink or cower. 
Come, as you came in the desert, 

Ere we were women and men, 
When the tiger passions were in us, 

And love as you loved me then! 

W. W. Story. 



THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL 

HE did not wear his scarlet coat, 
For blood and wine are red, 
And blood and wine were on his hands 

When they found him with the dead, 
The poor dead woman whom he loved. 
And murdered in her bed. 

He walked amongst the Trial Men 

In a suit of shabby gray ; 
A cricket cap was on his head, 

And his step seemed light and gay ; 
But I never saw a man who looked 

So wistfully at the day. 



264 SELECTED READINGS 

I never saw a man who looked 

With such a wistful eye 
Upon that little tent of blue 

Which prisoners call the sky, 
And at every drifting cloud that went 

With sails of silver by. 

I walked, with other souls in pain, 

Within another ring, 
And was wondering if the man had done 

A great or little thing, 
When a voice behind me whispered low, 
" That fellow 's got to swing" 

Dear Christ! the very prison walls 
Suddenly seemed to reel, 

And the sky above my head became 
Like a casque of scorching steel; 

And, though I was a soul in pain, 
My pain I could not feel. 

I only knew what hunted thought 
Quickened his step, and why 

He looked upon the garish day 
With such a wistful eye ; 

The man had killed the thing he loved, 
And so he had to die. 

Yet each man kills the thing he loves, 
By each let this be heard, 

Some do it with a bitter look, 

Some with a flattering word, 

The coward does it with a kiss, 
The brave man with a sword ! 

Some kill their love when they are young, 
And some when they are old; 

Some strangle with the hands of Lust, 
Some with the hands of Gold : 

The kindest use a knife, because 
The dead so soon grow cold. 



POETRY Z§5 

Some love too little, some too long, 

Some sell, and others buy; 
Some do the deed with many tears, 

And some without a sigh: 
For each man kills the thing he loves, 

Yet each man does not die. 

He does not die a death of shame 

On a day of dark disgrace, 
Nor have a noose about his neck, 

Nor a cloth upon his face, 
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor 

Into an empty space. 

He does not sit with silent men 

Who watch him night and day ; 
Who watch him when he tries to weep, 

And when he tries to pray ; 
Who watch him lest himself should rob 

The prison of its prey. 

He does not wake at dawn to see 

Dread figures throng his room, 
The shivering Chaplain robed in white, 

The Sheriff stern with gloom, 
And the Governor all in shiny black, 

With the yellow face of Doom. 

He does not rise in piteous haste 

To put on convict-clothes, 
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes 

Each new and nerve-twitched pose, 
Fingering a watch whose little ticks 

Are like horrible hammer-blows. 

He does not know that sickening thirst 

That sands one's throat, before 
The hangman with his gardener's gloves 

Slips through the padded door, 
And binds one with three leathern thongs, 

That the throat may thirst no more. 



266 SELECTED READINGS 

He does not bend his head to hear 

The Burial Office read, 
Nor, while the terror of his soul 

Tells him he is not dead, 
Cross his own coffin, as he moves 

Into the hideous shed. 

He does not stare upon the air 
Through a little roof of glass: 

He does not pray with lips of clay 
For his agony to pass; 

Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek 
The kiss of Caiaphas. 

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard, 
In the suit of shabby gray ; 

His cricket cap was on his head, 

And his step seemed light and gay, 

But I never saw a man who looked 
So wistfully at the day. 

I never saw a man who looked 

With such a wistful eye 
Upon that little tent of blue 

Which prisoners call the sky, 
And at every wandering cloud that trailed' 

Its ravelled fleeces by. 

He did not wring his hands, as do 
Those witless men who dare 

To try to rear the changeling Hope 
In the cave of black Despair : 

He only looked upon the sun, 
And drank the morning air. 

He did not wring his hands nor weep, 

Nor did he peek or pine, 
But he drank the air as though it held 

Some healthful anodyne ; 
With open mouth he drank the sun 

As though it had been wine ! 



POETRY 267 

And I and all the souls in pain, 

Who tramped the other ring, 
Forgot if we ourselves had done 

A great or little thing, 
And watched with gaze of dull amaze 

The man who had to swing. 

And strange it was to think that he 

With a step so light and gay, 
And strange it was to see him look 

So wistfully at the day, 
And strange it was to think that he 

Had such a debt to pay. 

At last the dead man walked no more 

Amongst the Trial Men, 
And I knew that he was standing up 

In the black dock's dreadful pen, 
And that never would I see his face 

In God's sweet world again. 
» • • • • 

In Reading gaol by Reading town 

There is a pit of shame, 
And in it lies a wretched man 

Eaten by teeth of flame, 
In a burning winding-sheet he lies, 

And his grave has got no name. 

And there, till Christ call forth the dead, 

In silence let him lie : 
No need to waste the foolish tear, 

Or heave the windy sigh: 
The man had killed the thing he loved, 

And so he had to die. 

And all men kill the thing they love, 

By all let this be heard, 
Some do it with a bitter look, 

Some with a flattering word, 
The coward does it with a kiss, 
The brave man with a sword ! 

Oscak Wilde. 
Abridged by Anna Morgan, 



IV 
VERSE 



I 



IV — VERSE 



OLD CHUMS* 

IS it you, Jack ? Old boy, is it really you ? 
I should n't have known you but that I was told 
You might be expected ; — pray, how do you do ? 
But what, under heavens, has made you so old ? 

Your hair ! why, you 've only a little gray fuzz ! 

And your beard's white! but that can be beautifully 
dyed; 
And your legs aren't but just half as long as they was; 

And then — stars and garters! your vest is so wide. 

Is this your hand ? Lord, how I envied you that 

In the time of our courting, — so soft, and so small, 

And now it is callous inside, and so fat, — 

Well, you beat the very old deuce, that is all. 

Turn round! let me look at you! isn't it odd 

How strange in a few years a fellow's chum grows ! 

Your eye is shrunk up like a bean in a pod, 

And what are those lines branching out from your nose ? 

Your back has gone up and your shoulders gone down, 
And all the old roses are under the plough; 

Why, Jack, if we 'd happened to meet about town, 
I would n't have known you from Adam, I vow ! 

You 've had trouble, have you ? I 'm sorry ; but, John, 
All trouble sits lightly at your time of life. 

How 's Billy, my namesake ? You don't say he 's gone 
To the war, John, and that you have buried your wife ? 

Poor Katherine ! so she has left you — ah me ! 

I thought she would live to be fifty, or more. 
What is it you tell me ? She was fifty-three ! 

no, Jack ! she was n't so much by a score. 

Well, there 's little Katy, — was that her name, John? 

She'll rule your house one of these days like a queen. 
That baby ! good Lord ! is she married and gone ? 

With a Jack ten years old ! and a Katy fourteen ! 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin <fe Co. 



272 SELECTED READINGS 

Then I give it up ! Why, you 're younger than I 

By ten or twelve years, and to think you 've come back 

A sober old graybeard, just ready to die ! 

I don't understand how it is, — do you, Jack ? 

I 've got all my faculties yet, sound and bright ; 

Slight failure my eyes are beginning to hint; 
But still, with my spectacles on, and a light 

'Twixt them and the page, I can read any print. 

My hearing is dull, and my leg is more spare, 
Perhaps, than it was when I beat you at ball ; 

My breath gives out, too, if I go up a stair, — 

But nothing worth mentioning, nothing at all! 

My hair is just turning a little, you see, 

And lately I 've put on a broader-brimmed hat 
Than I wore at your wedding, but you will agree, 
Old fellow, I look all the better for that. 

I 'm sometimes a little rheumatic, 't is true, 

, And my nose is n't quite on a straight line, they say ; 
For all that, I don't think I 've changed much, do you ? 
And I don't feel a day older, Jack — not a day. 

Alice Cary. 



THE OLD COAT 

OLD coat, for some three or four seasons 
We 've been jolly comrades, but now 
We part, old companion, forever; 

To fate, and the fashion, I bow. 
You 'd look well enough at a dinner, 

I 'd wear you with pride at a ball ; 
But I 'm dressing to-night for a wedding — 
My own — and you 'd not do at all. 

You 've too many wine stains about you, 

You 're scented too much with cigars, 
When the gas-light shines full on your collar 

It glitters with myriad stars, 
That would n't look well at my wedding ; 

They'd seem inappropriate there — 
Nell does n't use diamond powder, 

She tells me it ruins the hair. 






VERSE 273 

You've been out on Cozzen's piazza 

Too late, when the evenings were damp, 
When the moonbeams were silvering Cro'nest, 

And the lights were all out in the camp. 
You 've rested on highly-oiled stairways 

Too often, when sweet eyes were bright, 
And somebody's ball dress — not Nellie's — 

Flowed 'round you in rivers of white. 

There 's a reprobate looseness about you ; 

Should I wear you to-night, I believe, 
As I come with my bride from the altar, 

You 'd laugh in your wicked old sleeve, 
When you felt there the tremulous pressure 

Of her hand in its delicate glove, 
That is telling me shyly, but proudly, 

Her trust is as deep as her love. 

So, go to your grave in the wardrobe, 

And furnish a feast for the moth, 
Nell's glove shall betray its sweet secrets 

To younger, more innocent cloth. 
'T is time to put on your successor — 

It's made in a fashion that's new; 
Old coat, I 'm afraid it will never 

Sit as easily on me as you. 

George Baker. 

THE DEAD PUSSY CAT 

YOU 'S as stiff an' as cold as a stone, 
Little cat! 
Dey 's done f rowed out and left you alone, 

Little cat! 
I 's a strokin' you's fur, 
But you don't never purr, 
Nor hump up any where, 

Little cat — 

W'y is dat? 
Is you's purrin' and humpin' up done? 

An' w'y f er is your lettle foot tied, 

. m Little cat? 
Did dey pizen you's tummick inside, 
Little cat? 
18 



274 SELECTED READINGS 

Did dey pound you wif bricks 
Or wif big nasty sticks, 
Or abuse you wif kicks, 

Little cat? 

Tell me dat. 
Did dey holler w'enever you cwied ? 

Did it hurt very bad w'en you died, 

Little cat? 
Oh ! w'y did n't you wun off an' hide, 

Little cat? 
I is wet in my eyes — 
'Cause I most always cwise 
Wen a pussy cat dies, 

Little cat! 

Tink of dat. 
An' I 's awfully solly besides. 

Dest lay still dere down in de soft gwoun, 

Little cat, * 

Wile I tucks de gween gwass all awoun' 

Little cat. 
Dey can't hurt you no more 
Wen you 's tired an' so sore. 
Dest sleep twiet, you pore 

Little cat, 

Wif a pat, 
An' fordet all de kicks of de town. 

Anonymous. 

GRAN'MA AL'US DOES 

I WANTS to mend my wagon, 
And has to have some nails, 
Just two, free will be plenty; 

We 're goin' to haul our rails. 
The splendidest cob fences 

We 're makin', ever was ! 
I wis' you 'd help me find 'em — 
Gran'ma al'us does. 

My horse's name is Betsey; 

She jumped and broke her head, 
I put her in the stable 

And fed her milk and bread. 



VERSE 275 

The stable 's in the parlor — 

We did n't make no muss ; 
I wis' you 'd let it stay there — 

Gran'ma al'us does. 

I's goin' to the cornfield 

To ride on Charlie's plough, 
I 'spect he'd like to have me; 

I wants to go right now. 
Oh, won't I " gee-up" awful, 

And " whoa " like Charlie whoas ! 
I wis' you would n't bozzer — 

Gran'ma never does. 

I wants some bread and butter. 

I 's hungry, worstest kind. 
But Freddy mustn't have none, 

'Cause he would n't mind. 
Put plenty sugar on it; 

I '11 tell you what I knows : 
It 's right to put on sugar — 

Gran'ma al'us does. 

A. H. Poe. 



TALKIN' 'BOUT TROUBLE 

"fTlHIS world's so full o' trouble," 
JL I hear so many say, 
An' I wonder if it really is, 
Or only seems that way. 
An' I wonder if the folks who find 
This world so very bad, 
Are lookin' with their smilin' eyes, 
Or eyes jes' lookin' sad. 

I wonder if they 're lookin' out 
To see what they can do 
By thinkin' — not about themselves — 
But thinkin' some 'bout you; 
An' I wonder if they ever tried 
To git braced up with this — 
A-lookin' 'round to see how much 
Of troubles they could miss? 



276 SELECTED READINGS 

An' have you ever thought about 

The greatness of a smile ? 

Wall, if you 've not, it might be well 

To try it for a while, 

Because a smile will do you good 

No matter where you go, 

For frowns are mighty common things, 

An' we all know that 's so ! 

But say, can anybody tell 

Why smiles should come so high, 

An' frowns should be such common things, 

Beneath the selfsame sky? 

If folks could only know how much 

They lose by lookm' sad, 

They 'd all cheer up an' spend their time 

A-tryin' to look glad. 

For every time you hide a sigh 

Behind a smilin' face, 

You 've took a burden from your soul, 

An' give the Lord a place. 

An' He 's the one who loves to see 

His children lookin' gay, 

An' bein' happy in His grace, 

An' makin' good His way. 

An' if you think you 've had too much, 
An' things ain't even now, 
Maybe you '11 find out by and by 
The " wherefor an' the how." 
An' I believe, before you die, 
You '11 see 't was for the best, 
An' that instead o' bein' wronged 
That mostly you 've been blest ; 

An' that your troubles made you big 
An' char'table an' strong, 
An' 'stead of bein' setbacks 
They've helped you git along; 
An' if you had n't had 'em 
You could never understood; 
An' now I ask you, my good friends, 
Do you really think you could? 

Carrte Jacobs-Bond. 



VERSE 277 



THE UNEXPECTED 

COME, listen, little boys and girls, 
While I a tale relate 
About a little boy named Tom, 
Whose age was almost eight. 

Tom was a headstrong kind of boy, 

Who thought it jolly fun 
To scare his mother half to death 

By blowing in a gum 

One day a stranger came that way, 

As strangers oft had done; 
But this one left behind the door 

A double-barrel gun. 

u Ha, ha," quoth Tom, the naughty boy, 

" I never saw one such ; 
If single barrels make such sport, 

This should make twice as much." 

So Tommy took the double gun 

Straight to his mother fast; 
" It is n't loaded, Maw," he yelled, 

And blew a mighty blast. 

And Tommy — where is Tommy now? 

A halo round his head? 
Not much. It was n't loaded, just 

As little Tommy said. 

Will J. Lampton. 

OUT OF ARCADIA 

THE country boy was in love, and young, 
And he urged his cause with an eager tongue ; 
But the maiden bade him work and wait : 
She wanted a man who was strong and great. 

He loved his home and the country life, 
And he wanted a tender little wife; 
He wished to live in peace and ease, 
In the shade of the spreading old elm trees. 



278 SELECTED READINGS 

But the maiden bade him go and win 
A name she could prize and glory in. 
She said she would wait and wed him when 
He made his place in the ranks of men. 

Then the boy plunged into the city's roar, 
And he learned the market's sordid lore, 
And he learned that life is an awful fight, 
Where the wounded fall to the left and right. 

But on their bodies he slowly rose, 

And he gained new strength from his vanquished foes 

As he overcame them and beat them down, 

He grew in wealth and in wide renown. 

But his heart was cold. He forgot to feel. 
His chilling smile had the glow of steel. 
His brain grew keen and his face grew hard, 
As he stood a victor, seamed and scarred. 

Then his words were treasured throughout the State, 
And all men followed and called him great. 
But he smiled when he thought of the country boy, 
And he sneered at love as a childish toy. 

Hakry Romaine. 



MAMMY'S LULLABY 

SLEEP, mah li'l, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo? 
Sunset still a-shinin' in de wes' ; 
Sky am full o' windehs and de stahs am peepin' froo 
Eb'ryt'ing but mammy's lamb at res'. 
Swing 'im to'ds de Eas'lan', 
Swing 'im to'ds de Souf — 
See dat dove a-comin' wif a olive in 'is mouf ! 
Angel hahps a-hummin', 
Angel banjos strummin' — 
Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo? 

Cricket fiddleh scrapin' off de rozzum f'um 'is bow, 

Whippo'will a-mo'nin on a lawg; 
Moon ez pale ez hit kin be a-risin' mighty slow — 

Stahtled at de bahkin' ob de dawg; 



VERSE 279 

Swing de baby Eas'way, 
Swing de baby Wes', 
Swin 'im to'ds de Souflan', whah de melon grow de bes' ! 
Angel singers singin', 
Angel bells a-ringin', 
Sleep, mah If 1 pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo ? 

Eyelids des a-droopin' li'l loweh all de w'ile, 

Undeh lip a-saggin' des a mite; 
Li'l baby toofies showin' so't o' lak a smile, 
Whiteh dan de snow, or des ez white. 
Swing 'im to'ds de No'flan' — 
Swing 'im to'ds de Eas' — 
Woolly cloud a-comin' f o' f wrap 'im in 'is fleece ! 
Angel ban' a-playin' — 
Whut dat music sayin'? 
" Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo? " 

Strickland W. Gillilan. 



KITTY OF COLERAINE 

AS beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 
J\. With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, 
When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, 
And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain. 

" 0, what shall I do now ? — 't was looking at you now ! 

Sure, sure, such a pitcher I '11 ne'er meet again ! 
'T was the pride of my dairy : Barney M'Cleary ! 

You 're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine." 

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, 

That such a misfortune should give her such pain. 

A kiss then I gave her; and ere I did leave her, 

She vowed for such pleasure she 'd break it again. 

'T was hay-making season — I can't tell the reason — 
Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain; 

For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster 

The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. 

Charles Dawson Shanly. 



280 SELECTED READINGS 



THE LITTLE CHURCH ROUND THE CORNER 

" TT> RING him not here, where our sainted feet 

JD Are treading the path to glory ; 
Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet 

Repeats for us his story. 
Go, take him where such things are done 

(For he sat in the seat of the scorner), 
To where they have room, for we have none, — , 

To the little church round the corner." 

So spake the holy man of God, 

Of another man, his brother, 
Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod, 
Had only asked that a Christian rite 
Might be read above them by one whose light 

Was, " Brethren, love one another " ; 
Had only asked that a prayer be read 
Ere his flesh went down to join the dead, 
While his spirit looked with suppliant eyes, 
Searching for God throughout the skies. 
But the priest frowned " No," and his brow was bare 

Of love in the sight of the mourner, 
And they looked for Christ and found him — - where ? 

In that little church round the corner. 

Ah ! well, God grant when, with aching feet, 

We tread life's last few paces, 
That we may hear some accents sweet, 

And kiss, to the end, fond faces. 
God grant that this tired flesh may rest 

('Mid many a musing mourner), 
While the sermon is preached and the rites are read 
In no church where the heart of love is dead, 
And the pastor's a pious prig at best, 
But in some small nook where God's confessed, — 

Some little church round the corner. 

A. E. Lancaster. 



VERSE 281 



ANNE HATHAWAY 

ONCE on a time, when jewels flashed, 
And moonlit fountains softly splashed, 
And all the air was sweet and bright 
With music, mirth, and deft delight, 
A courtly dame drew, laughing, near 

A poet — greatest of his time, 
And chirped a question in his ear, 

With voice like silver bells in chime: 
" Good Mr. Shakespeare, I would know 

The name thy lady bore, in sooth, 
Ere thine. Nay, little time ago 

It was — for we still mark her youth ; 
Some highborn name, I trow, and yet, 
Altho' I've heard it, I forget." 
Then answered he, with dignity, 
Yet blithely — for the hour was gay — 
" My lady's name — Anne Hathaway." 

" And good, sweet sir," the dame pursued, 
Too fair and winsome to be rude, 
" ? T is whispered here and whispered there, 
By doughty knights and ladies fair, 
That — that — well, that her royal lord 

Does e'en obey her lightest word. 
Now, my good spouse — I pledge my word — 

Tho' loving well doth heed me ill; 
How art thou conquered, prithee, tell," 

She pleaded with her pretty frown ; 
" I fain would know what mighty spell 

Can bring a haughty husband down." 
She ceased, and raised her eager face 
To his, with laughing, plaintive grace. 
Then answered he, with dignity, 
Yet blithely, — for the hour was gay, — 
" Ah, lady, I can only say 
Her name again — Anne Hath-a-way." 

Anonymous. 



282 SELECTED READINGS 

THE GATE 



AGATE. 
Two lovers. 
A father mad. 
The hour is late. 
Two hearts are glad. 

II 

A growl. 
A leap. 
A nip. 
A tear. 
A cry. 
A sigh. 
And then — 
A swear. 

Ill 

Finale 

A gate. 
No lovers. 
A father glad. 
A dog triumphant. 
A maiden sad. 
Moral: If it took two hours to say good-night, 
It served him right if the dog did bite. 

Bessie Cahn. 



"SPACIALLY JIM"* 

IWTJS mighty good-lookin' when I was young, 
Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, 
With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 
'Specially Jim. 

* By permission 0/ The Century Co. 



VERSE 283 

The likeliest one of ? em all was he, 

Chipper an' han'som' an' trim, 
But I tossed up my head an* made fun o' the crowd, 

'Spatially Jim. 

I said I had n't no 'pinion o' men, 

An' I would n't take stock in him ! 
But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 

'Spatially Jim. 

I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun', 

'Spatially Jim, 
I made up my mind I 'd settle down 

An' take up with him. 

So we was married one Sunday in church, 

'T was crowded full to the brim ; 
'T was the only way to get rid of 'em all, 

'Spatially Jim. 

Bessie Morgan. 

A SIMILAR CASE 

JACK, I hear you 've gone and done it, — 
Yes, I know ; most fellows will ; 
Went and tried it once myself, sir, 
Though you see I'm single still. 
And you met her — did you tell me — 
Down at Newport, last July, 
And resolved to ask the question 
At a soiree? So did I. 

I suppose you left the ball-room, 

With its music and its light; 

For they say love's flame is brightest 

In the darkness of the night. 

Well, you walked along together, 

Overhead, the starlit sky ; 

And I '11 bet — old man, confess it — 

You were frightened. So was I. 

So you strolled along the terrace, 
Saw the summer moonlight pour 
All its radiance on the waters, 
As they rippled on the shore, 



284 SELECTED READINGS 

Till at length you gathered courage, 
When you saw that none was nigh — * 
Did you draw her close and tell her 
That you loved her? So did I. 

Well, I needn't ask you further, 
And I 'm sure I wish you joy. 
Think I '11 wander down and see you 
When you 're married — eh, my boy ? 
When the honeymoon is over 
And you 're settled down, we '11 try — 
What ? the deuce you say ! Rejected — 
You rejected? So was I. 

Anonymous. 



THE USUAL WAY 

THERE was once a little man, and his rod and line he 
took, 
For he said, " I '11 go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." 
And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, 
And they met — in the usual way. 

Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, 
But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie ; 
" I thought," she shyly whispered, " you 'd be fishing all the 
day ! " 
And he was — in the usual way. 

So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about, 
But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out; 
And he said, " Sweetheart, I love you," but she said she 
could not stay, . 
But she did — in the usual way. 

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little 

sigh 
As they watched the silver ripples like the moments running 

by; 
"We must say good-bye," she whispered by the alders old 

and gray. 
And they did — in the usual way. 



VERSE 285 

And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro, 
And day by day the fishes swam securely down below, 
Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, 
Very much — in the usual way. 

And now that they are married, do they always bill and 

coo? 
Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do ? 
Does he cherish her and love her ? does she honor and obey ? 
Well, they do — in the usual way. 

Anonymous. 

THE FAITHFUL LOVERS 

I'D been away from her three years, — about that, 
And I returned to find my Mary true; 
And thought I 'd question her, I did not doubt that 
It was unnecessary so to do. 

'Twas by the chimney-corner we were sitting: 
" Mary," said I, " have you been always true ? " 

" Frankly/' says she, just pausing in her knitting, 
" I don't think I 've unfaithful been to you : 

But for the three years past I '11 tell you what 

I 've done ; then say if I 've been true or not. 

"When first you left my grief was uncontrollable; 

Alone I mourned my miserable lot; 
And all who saw me thought me inconsolable, 

Till Captain Clifford came from Aldershot. 
To flirt with him amused me while 't was new : 
I don't count that unfaithfulness — do you? 

" The next — oh ! let me see — was Frankie Phipps ; 

I met him at my uncle's, Christmas-tide, 
And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips met lips, 

He gave me his first kiss — " And here she sighed. 
" We stayed six weeks at uncle's — how time flew ! 
I don't count that unfaithfulness — do you? 

" Lord Cecil Fossmore — only twenty-one — 

Lent me his horse. 0, how we rode and raced ! 

We scoured the downs — we rode to hounds — such fun ! 
And often was his arm about my waist, — 

That was to lift me up and down. But who 

Would call just that unfaithfulness? Would you? 



286 SELECTED READINGS 

" Do you know Reggy Vere ? Ah, how he sings ! 

We met, — 't was at a picnic. 0, such weather ! 
He gave me, look, the first of these two rings 

When we were lost in Clief den woods together. 
Ah, what a happy time we spent, — we two ! 
I don't count that unfaithfulness to you. 

" I 've yet another ring from him ; d' ye see 

The plain gold circlet that is shining here ? " 

I took her hand : " Mary ! can it be 

That you — » Quoth she, " That I am Mrs. Vere ? 

I don't call that unfaithfulness — do you?" 

" No," I replied, " for I am married too." 

Anonymous. 



PLATONIC 

I HAD sworn to be a bachelor, she had sworn to be a 
maid, 
For we quite agreed in doubting whether matrimony paid; 
Besides, we had our higher loves, — fair science ruled my 

heart; 
And she said her young affections were all wound up in art. 

So we laughed at those wise men who say that friendship 

cannot live 
'Twixt man and woman, unless each has something more 

to give: 
We would be friends, and friends as true as e'er were man 

and man — 
I 'd be a second David, and she Miss Jonathan. 

We scorned all sentimental trash, — vows, kisses, tears, and 

sighs; 
High friendship, such as ours, might well such childish 

art despise; 
We liked each other, that was all, quite all there was to say, 
So we just shook hands upon it in a business sort of way. 

We shared our secrets and our joys, together hoped and 

feared, 
With common purpose sought the goal that young Ambition 

reared; 



VERSE 287 

We dreamed together of the days, the dream-bright days 

to come; 
We were strictly confidential, and we called each other 

"chum."' 

And many a day we wandered together o'er the hills, 
I seeking bugs and butterflies, and she the ruined mills 
And rustic bridges, and the like, that picture-makers prize 
To run in with their waterfalls, and groves, and summer 
skies. 

And many a quiet evening, in hours of silent ease 
We floated down the river, or strolled beneath the trees, 
And talked, in long gradation, from the poets to the weather, 
While the western skies and my cigar burned slowly out 
together. 

Yet through it all no whispered word, no tell-tale glance 

or sigh 
Told aught of warmer sentiment than friendly sympathy. 
We talked of love as coolly as we talked of nebulae 
And thought no more of being one than we did of being three. 

" Well, good-bye, chum ! " I took her hand, for the time had 

come to go. 
My going meant our parting, when to meet, we did not 

know; 
I had lingered long, and said farewell with a very heavy 

heart; 
For although we were but friends, 'tis hard for honest 

friends to part. 

" Good-bye, old fellow ! don't forget your friends beyond 

the sea, 
And some day when you 've lots of time, drop a line or two 

to me." 
The words came lightly, gayly, but a great sob, just behind, 
Welled upward with a story of quite a different kind. 

And then she raised her eyes to mine, great liquid eyes of 

blue, 
Filled to the brim, and running o'er, like violet cups of dew ; 



288 SELECTED READINGS 

One long, long glance, and then I did what I never did 

before — 
Perhaps the tears meant friendship, but I'm sure the kiss 

meant more. 

William B. Terrett. 



LIFE 

HOW beautiful it is to be alive! 
To wake each morn as if the Maker's grace 
Did us afresh from nothingness desire, 
That we might sing, How happy is our case ! 
How beautiful it is to be alive! 

To read in God's great book until we feel 
Love for the love that gave it; then to kneel 
Close unto Him whose truth our souls will shrive 
While every moment's joy doth more reveal 
How beautiful it is to be alive! 

Eather to go without what might increase 
Our worldly standing, than our souls deprive 
Of frequent speech with God ; or than to cease 
To feel, through having wasted health or peace, 
How beautiful it is to be alive. 

Not to forget, when pain and grief draw nigh, 
Into the ocean of time past to dive 
For memories of God's mercies, or to try 
To bear all sweetly, hoping yet, to cry 
How beautiful it is to be alive! 

Thus ever toward man's height of nobleness 
Strive still some new profession to contrive, 
Till, just as any other friend's, we press 
Death's hand; and having died, feel none the less 
How beautiful it is to be alive. 

Thomas Shelley Sutton. 

SHE LIKED HIM RALE WEEL 

THE Spring had brought out the green leaf on the trees, 
An' the flowers were unfolding their sweets tae the bees, 
When Jock says tae Jenny, "Come, Jenny, agree, 
An' say the bit word that ye '11 marry me." 



VERSE 289 

She held do-on her heid like a lily sae meek, 
An' the blush o' the rose fled awa' frae her cheek. 
But she said, " Gang awa' man ! 

Your heid 's in a creel." 
She didna let on that she liked him rale weel — 

Oh! she liked him rale weel — 

Aye, she liked him rale weel ! 
But she didna let on that she liked him rale weel. 

Then Jock says, " Oh, Jenny, for a twalmonth an' mair, 
Ye ha'e kept me just hangin' 'twixt hope an' despair. 
But, oh! Jenny, last night something whispered tae me 
That I'd better lie doon at the dyke-side an' dee." 
Tae keep Jock in life, she gave in tae be tied; 
An' soon they were booked, an three times they were cried. 
Love danced in Jock's heart, an' hope joined the reel — 
He was sure that his Jenny did like him rale weel — 

Oh! she liked him rale weel! 

Aye, she liked him rale weel! 
But she never let on that she liked him rale weel. 

When the wedding day cam', tae the manse they did stap, 

An' there they got welcome frae Mr. Dunlap, 

Wha chained them to love's matrimonial stake, 

Syne they took a dram an' a mouthfu' o' cake. 

Then the minister said, "Jock, be kind tae your Jenny, 

Nae langer she 's tied to the string o' her minnie ; 

Noo, Jenny, will ye aye be couthie an' leal ? " 

" Yes, sir ; oh, yes, for I like him rale weel ! " 

Aye, she liked him rale weel ! 

Oh ! she liked him rale weel ! 
At last she owned up that she liked him rale weel ! 

Andrew Wauless. 



THE HINDOO'S PARADISE 

A HINDOO died, — a happy thing to do 
When twenty years united to a shrew. 
Released, he joyously for entrance cries 
Before the gates of Brahma's paradise. 
" Hast been through purgatory," Brahma said. 
" I have been married," — and he hung his head. 



290 SELECTED READINGS 

" Come in, come in, and welcome, too, my son ! 
Marriage and purgatory are as one." 
In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door, 
And knew the peace he ne'er had known before. 

Scarce had he entered in the garden fair, 

Before another Hindoo asked admission there. 

The selfsame question Brahma asked again : 

" Hast been through purgatory ? " " No — what then ? " 

" Thou canst not enter," did the god reply. 

" He who went in was there no more than I." 

" All that is true, but he hath married been, 

And so on earth has suffered for all sin." 

" Married ? 'T is well ; for I 've been married twice ! " 

" Begone ! We '11 have no fools in paradise ! " 

Anonymous. 



A DEAR LITTLE GOOSE 

WHILE I am in the ones, I can frolic all the day; 
I can laugh, I can jump, I can run about and play. 
But when I 'm in my tens, I must get up with the lark, 

And sew and read, and practise, from early morn till 
dark. 

But when I 'm in my twenties, I '11 be like sister Joe. 

I '11 wear the sweetest dresses, and maybe have a beau ; 
I '11 go to balls and parties, and wear my hair up high, 

And not a girl in all the town shall be as gay as I. 

When I am in my thirties, I '11 be just like mamma ; 

And maybe I '11 be married to a splendid big papa. 
I '11 cook, and bake, and mend, and mind, and grow a little 
fat. 

But mother is so sweet and nice, I '11 not object to that. 

Oh, what comes after thirty? The forties! Mercy! My! 

When I grow as old as forty, I think I '11 have to die. 
But like enough the world won't last until we see that day, 

It's so very, very, very, very, very far away. 

Anonymous. 



VERSE 291 



MATTIE'S WANTS AND WISHES 

I WANTS a piece of talito 
To make my doll a dress; 
I doesn't want a big piece — 
A yard '11 do I guess. 

I wish you 'd f red my needle, 
And find my fimble, too — 

I has such heaps o' sewin' 

I don't know what to do. 

My Hepsy tored her apron 

A tum'lin' down the stair; 

And Caesar's lost his pantaloons, 
And needs anozzer pair. 

I wants my Maud a bonnet, 

She has n't none at all ; 
And Fred must have a jacket, 

His uzzer one's too small. 

I wants to go to grandma's, 

You promised me I might; 

You know she'll like to see me — 
I wants to go to-night. 

She lets me wash the dishes, 

And see in grandpa's watch — 

Wish I 'd free, four pennies, 
To buy some butter-scotch. 

I wants some newer mittens, 
I wish you 'd knit me some, 

'Cause 'most my fingers freezes, 
They leak so in the fum. 

I wored it out last summer 

A-pullin' George's sled; 
I wish you wouldn't laugh so — 

It hurts me in my head. 

I wish I had a cooky — 

I 'm hungry 's I can be ; 
If you has n't pretty large ones, 

You 'd better bring me free. 

Grace Gordon - . 



SELECTIONS 



V — SELECTIONS 



THE CATECHIST* 

TF! WAS a man, and a maid, and a little gray cat sitting 

-l on a wall. 
I will tell you just what the three were at; I know, though 

I didn't see all. 
The man was scratching a puzzled head; the girl, with a 

troubled air, 
"Was playing the Catechist, blushing red; the cat was wash- 
ing his hair. 
" Now, don't you know it is wrong ? " said the maid. " I 

don't see why," said the man. 
"We haven't been acquainted long." "I am getting on 

fast as I can." 
" Now, don't be stubborn," the Catechist said — and the 

rest was the part that I missed; 
But the man kissed one of the two that were there. Do 

you think 't was the Catechist? 

Anonymous. 



C'LUMBUS 

A Boy's Composition 

C'LUMBTTS was a man who could make an egg stand 
on end without breaking it. The King of Spain said 
to C'lumbus, " Can you discover America ? " " Yes," said 
he, "if you will give me a ship." So he had a ship and 
sailed over the sea in the direction in which he thought 
America ought to be found. The sailors had a fight and 
said they believed there was no such place; but after awhile 
the pilot came and said, " C'lumbus, I see land." " Then 
that must be America," said C'lumbus. When they drew 
near the land they saw it was full of black men and C'lumbus 
said, " You must be niggers." Then the chief said, " You 
must be C'lumbus." "You are right," said he; "I am." 
Then the chief turned to his men and said: "There is no 
help for it. We are discovered at last." 

Anonymous. 

* By permission of The Smart Set. 



296 SELECTED READINGS 



MADAME EEF 

MONSIEUR ADAM was all alone in ze garden. He have 
plenty for eat and plenty for drink and ees very con- 
fortable, but he 'ave not much clothes. 

Von evening he lie down on ze ground for take a nap. 
In ze morning he wake wiz wan pain in hees side. 

He say : " Oh, mon Dieu, vat ees ze matter, eh ? Ah ! 
diable, ees wan rib gone. I shall make von promenade in 
ze open air. It will make me feel bettair." 

He promenade. Mme. Eef she approach. It is ze first 
lady zat M. Adam haf ever met ; it is Mme. Eef s entree to 
society. Zhey approach each other and both are very much 
attract. M. Adam he say, " I 'ave ze plaisair for promenade 
wiz you ? " 

Mme Eef respond, "I shall be mos' happy"; and zhey 
walk together. Zhey promenade under von tree wiz ze pretty 
appel on it; ze pretty appel wiz ze red streak. Monsieur le 
serpent he sit in ze arbre. He 'ave pretty mask all over 
hees face — look like elegant gentilhomme. 

Mme. Eef she see Monsieur le serpent wiz ze pretty mask 
and ze appel wiz ze red streak and she is very much at- 
tract. Monsieur le serpent he say, " Mme. Eef, shall I 
'ave ze plaisair for peek you von appel?" Mme. Eef, she 
reach out her hand for take ze appel. Monsieur Adam 
he say, "Hola, hola, voila. Vat you do, eh? You do not 
know it ees prohibit? You must not touch ze appel. If 
you eat ze appel you shall be like von God — you shall know 
ze good from ze evil." 

Monsieur le serpent take von pinch of snuff. He say, 
" Monsieur Adam, it ees prohibit for you. If you eat ze 
appel you shall become like von Dieu — you shall know ze 
good from ze evil. Mut Mme. Eef, she cannot become more 
like von goddess zan she ees now." 

And zat finish Mme. Eef. 

Anonymous. 



SELECTIONS 297 

AN ITALIAN'S VIEWS ON THE LABOR 
QUESTION 

ONE man looka at da labor quest' one way, 'noder man 
looka 'noder way. I looka deesa way : 

Longa time ago I gitta born in Italia. Pret' queck I 
gitta big 'nough to know mya dad. I find him one worka 
man. Him worka hard in da hotta sun — sweat lika da 
wetta rag to maka da 'nough mon' to gitta da grub. Mya 
moth' worka too — work lika da dog. Dey make alia da 
kids work — mea too. Dat maka me tired. I see da king, 
da queen, and da richa peop' driva by in da swella style. 
It maka me sick. I say, " Da world alia wrong. Da rich 
have too mucha mon', too mucha softa snap. Da poor have 
too mucha work, too mucha dirt, too mucha tougha luck." 

Dat maka me one dago anarchista. I hear 'bout Amer- 
ica, da f reea countra, where da worka man eata da minca pie 
an' da roasa beef. 

I taka da skip — taka da ship — sail ova da wat' — 
reaeha Newa York. 

Va! It reminds me of Naples — beautifula bay, blue 
sky, da plenty lazaroni and mucha dirta streets. 

I looka 'r-round for da easy job. It noa go. Da easy 
jobs alia gone. 

It mora work to gitta da work dan da work itself. I gitta 
down on da richa peop' more anda more alia da time. Geea 
Whiz! Dat freea countra maka me sick! 

Well, aft' while I strika da job — pounda da stone on 
da railroad. It neer keela, but I eata da ver' lit' grub, weara 
da olda clothes, and socka da mon' in mya sock eacha day. 
I learna da one ting — da mon' maka da mare go. 

I catcha da spirit of a da town: I maka what you calla 
da progress. I find da man what maka da mon' nev' do 
da harda work. I quit. I buya da buncha banan', putta 
da banan' ina da bask ona my arm, sella him ona da street. 
Hulla Gee ! I maka da twenty-fi' cent a day clear. 

Ver' soon I have da gr-rata lotta mon'. I buya one handa 
org 5 ; maka da mus', playa Ta-ra-ra Boom all ova da coun- 
try; maka mor' mon'; den I buy Jocka da monk'. Da 
monk' is lika da businessa man — ver' smart. I maka him 
my cashier. Him passa da contribution box lika da deacon 
in da church. Him maka da face, him dance. 



298 SELECTED READINGS 

Da biz grow. We sella da hand or^ — buy one streeta 
piano. I hira one distant. Da 'sistant pusha da piano, I 
grinda da crank, da monk' taka da mon'. 

We gitta da ver' wella off. I gitta mar-r-red. Buya me 
one home, sweeta home. 

I investa ma mon' — buya da fruita stands on da side- 
walk — hire da cheapa dago chumps to runna da stands. 

Da labor quest' ver' simp' — ver 5 plain. When I poor 
I say : — " Shoota da monopola ! Keela da richa man ! " 
Alia da same when you in Eoma do lika da Eoma peop'. 

Now I one r-richa man. I weara da fine clothes — picka 
my teeth with da golda pick — weara da diamond stud — 
driva ma team — and snappa ma fingers. 

It maka alia da dif in da world which side da fence 
you stana on. 

Joe Kerr. 



h 



THE MEETING OF THE CLABBERHUSES * 

E was the Chairman of the Guild 
Of Early Pleiocene Patriarchs ; 
He was chief Mentor of the Lodge 

Of the Oracular Oligarchs. 
He was the Lord High Autocrat 

And Vizier of the Sons of Light, 
And Sultan and Grand Mandarin 

Of the Millennial Men of Might. 

He was Grand Totem and High Priest 

Of the Independent Potentates; 
Grand Mogul of the Galaxy 

Of the Illustrious Stay-out-lates ; 
The President of the Dandydudes; 

The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee; 
The Leader of the Clubtown Band 

And Architects of Melody. 

She was Grand Worthy Prophetess 

Of the Illustrious Maids of Mark; 
Of Vestals of the Third Degree 

She was Most Potent Matriarch; 
She was High Priestess of the Shrine 

Of Clubtown's Culture Coterie, 
And First Vice-President of the League 

Of the Illustrious G.A.B. 

* By permission of the author and the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 



SELECTIONS 299 

She was the First Dame of the Club 

For teaching Patagonians Greek; 
She was Chief Clerk and Auditor 

Of Club town's Anti-Bachelor Clique; 
She was High Treasurer of the Fund 

For Borrioboolaghalians, 
And the Fund for sending Browning's Poems 

To Native-born Australians. 

Once to a crowded social fete 

Both these much titled people came, 

And each perceived, when introduced, 
They had the selfsame name. 

Their hostess said when first they met : 
" Permit me now to introduce 

My good friend Mr. Clabberhuse 
To Mrs. Clabberhuse." 

" 'T is very strange," said she to him, 

" Such an unusual name, 
A name so very seldom heard, 

That we should bear the same." 
" Indeed, 't is wonderful," said he, 

" And I 'm surprised the more, 
Because I never heard the name 

Outside my home before. 

" But now I come to look at you," 

Said he, "upon my life, 
If I am not indeed deceived, 

You are — you are — my wife." 
She gazed into his searching face 

And seemed to look him through: 
" Indeed," said she, " it seems to me 

You are my husband, too." 

" I 've been so busy with my clubs, 
And in my various spheres, 
I have not seen you now," she said, 

" For over fourteen years." 
"That's just the way it's been with me, 

These clubs demand a sight — " 
And then they both politely bowed, 
And sweetly said, " Good-night." 

Sam Walter Foss. 



300 SELECTED READINGS 



A CLUB MEETING OF SOLOMON'S WIVES* 

A WOMAN'S club meeting of Solomon's wives 
Was quite an important affair; 
It brought a fresh interest into their lives 

And drove Mr. S. to despair. 
They had deep discussion on things of the hour, 

And argued on topical lines 
Till they made such a racket you 'd hear them all clack it 
As far as King Solomon's mines. 

The first Mrs. S., quite a dowager stout, 

Presided at three each club day, 
When she always began, " Let us try to find out 

What Kipling intended in ' They ' — 
And let 's have a paper on Dooley and James 

And The Ethical Conscience of Poe, 
On Byron and Shelley and Marie Corelli — 

Such topics are helpful, you know." 

Then a blond Mrs. S. shyly rose to her feet, 

And said, showing . symptoms of scare 
As she fitfully read from a typewritten sheet, 

" I have n't had time to prepare — 
The man Henry James — I mean Poe — let me see — 

I think he was born in the year — 
I 'm horridly nervous ! Sweet Heaven, preserve us, 

I 've got the wrong paper — oh, dear ! " 

Then a dark Mrs. S. said, with withering scorn, 

" How can such a talk be presented 
When Byron and Shelley have never been born 

And Kipling is not yet invented? 
We have Hebrew poets as great as that Poe — 

Mrs. President I have the floor — 
I think it much harder — " Here the chair rapped for order, 

And the meeting merged into a roar. 

Then, dropping the poets, there rose a debate 

'Twixt feminine disputants able, 
'Midst witty retorts and finance reports, 

Till trie question was laid on the table. 

* By permission of the author and the publishers, The Macmillan Company. 



SELECTIONS 301 

But when a refreshment committee was formed, 

The talk grew as mild as could be, 
Sweet quiet returned, and the meeting adjourned 

To Solomon's temple for tea. 

Wallace Irwin. 



WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA* 

OH ! they 've swept the parlor carpet, and they 've dusted 
every chair, 
And they've got the tidies hanging just exactly on the 

square. 
And the whatnot's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all 

been beat, 
And the pantry's brimming over with bully things to eat. 

Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she 's frizzing up her 

bangs, 
Ma 's got on her best alpaca, and she 's asking how it hangs. 
Pa 's shaved as slick as can be and I 'm all rigged up in & ; 
And it 's all because we 're goin' to have the minister to tea. 

Oh ! the table 's fixed up gaudy with the gilt-edged china set, 

And we'll use the silver teapot and the company spoons, 
you bet. 

And we 're goin' to have some fruitcake, and some thimble- 
berry jam, 

Eiz' biscuits, and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and 
some ham. 

Ma '11 pologize like fury and say everything is bad, 

And such awful luck with cookin' she 's sure she never had. 

But of course she's only bluffin', for it's as prime as it 

can be, 
And she 's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister 's to tea. 

Everybody '11 be a-smilin' and as good as ever was, 

Pa won't growl 'bout the vituals like he generally does. 

An' he '11 ask me — would I like another piece of pie ? But 

sho ! 
That of course is only manners and I 'm supposed to answer 

no. 

* From "Cape Cod Ballads and Other Verse," by Joseph Crosby Lincoln. Copy- 
right, 1902, by Albert Brandt, Trenton, N. J. 



302 SELECTED READINGS 

Sis '11 talk about the church work, and 'bout the Sunday 

school. 
Ma '11 say how she liked that sermon that was on the golden 

rule. 
And if I upset my tumbler, they won't say a word to me. 
Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister to tea v 

Say! a minister you'd reckon wouldn't say what wasn't 

true, 
But that is n't so with ours, and I just can prove it, too ; 
For when Sis plays on the organ so 's it makes you want to 

die, 
Why he sets and says its lovely, and that seems to me a 

He u 

But I. like him all the samey, and I only wish he 'd stay 
At our house for good and always and eat with us every day. 
Only think of havin' goodies every evenin', Giminee ! 
And I 'd never get a scoldin' with the minister to tea. 

Joseph Crosby Lincoln. 

AUNT 'MANDY* 

OUE Aunt 'Mandy thinks that boys 
Never ought ter make a noise, 
Or go swimmin', or play ball, 
Or have any fun at all; 
Thinks a boy had ought ter be 
Dressed up all the time, and she 
Hollers jest as if she 's hurt 
At the littlest mite er dirt 
On a feller's hands or face, 
Or his clothes, or any place. 

Then at dinnertime she's there, 
Sayin', " Must n't kick the chair! " 
Or, " Why don't yer sit up straight ? " 
" 'T ain't perlite to drum yer plate." 
An' yer got ter eat as slow, 
'Cause she 's dingin' at yer so. 
Then, when Chris'mas comes, she brings 
Nothin' only useful things: 
Han'kershi'fs an' gloves an' ties, 
Sunday stuff yer jest despise. 

* From " Cape Cod Ballads and Other Verse," by Joseph Crosby Lincoln. Copy- 
right, 1902, by Albert Brandt, Trenton, N. J. 



SELECTIONS 303 

She's a ole maid, all alone, 
'Thout no children of her own, 
An' I s'pose that makes her fuss 
'Bound our house a-bossin' us. 
If she'd had a boy, I bet, 
'Tween her bossin' and her fret 
She'd a-killed him, jest about; 
So God made her do without, 
For he knew no boy could stay 
With Aunt 'Mandy every day. 

Joseph Ceosbt Lincoln. 



A STUDY IN NERVES* 

A SMALL door at the right of the pulpit opened, and 
he walked to his place before the altar. It had 
already been indicated by an inconspicuous chalk mark on 
the floor. His best man followed a little behind him at 
an interval which had required frequent rehearsing the 
evening before. He did not catch his chalk mark for an 
instant, and overstepped it, but he retreated cautiously, still 
facing the enemy, and carefully covered it with his foot. 

People had been pouring into the church for the last 
half -hour. At last all those who had been invited had been 
given the front seats. There was a slight flutter in the 
audience when the bride's mother and her two married 
sisters were escorted to their seats on the opposite side of 
the aisle from that set apart for the bridegroom's family, 
in the suggestively antagonistic manner which is customary 
when two houses are about to be united. 

From his chalk mark by the altar he gazed rather unin- 
telligently at the blur of faces turned toward him. Why 
should they all be staring at him? Was his cravat slipping 
up over his collar ? Only a hoarse but reassuring " You're 
all right, old man ! " brought his wandering hand back to 
his side again. But why didn't the music begin? Why 
did n't they open those doors ? Had anything gone wrong ? 
Had any one arrived at the last moment to announce some 
good cause why they two should not be joined together in 
holy wedlock? No, thank Heaven, he could face the world 
on that score. None the less, he felt that it must be fearfully 

* By permission of Life Publishing Co. 



304 SELECTED READINGS 

late. Yet he had been told that everything was all ready, 
and that it was time for him to take his place on his 
chalk mark. What were they waiting for? If he could 
only look at his watch and see what time it really was, it 
would relieve his mind. He remembered that he had never 
seen it done, and kept his hands fast at the seams of his 
trousers, out of temptation. 

Suddenly the doors were pushed back and the bridal party 
appeared in the opening. Behind the double file of sombre- 
hue d ushers his eye caught a bit of color from the dress 
of one of the bridesmaids, and then rested for a moment 
upon a little cloud of pure swanlike white. Thank Heaven, 
there she was. And as she was there, why did n't the music 
begin? The tallest usher changed his position, and the 
little white cloud disappeared behind his broad black 
shoulder. Confound him, why could n't he stand still, when 
that was the first glimpse he had had of her for goodness 
knew how long! 

He saw the black back of the organist suddenly fill out 
as with the responsibility of his exalted position, and the 
next instant the familiar Mendelssohn Wedding March pealed 
through the church. He felt that his troubles were over, 
for anything was better than that silent staring. 

Eor a moment he could not make out what had all at 
once changed the appearance of things so much. Then he 
discovered that the sea of faces had turned into an equally 
bewildering exhibition of black hair. What was the matter 
with his mind, anyway? WTiy couldn't he stop thinking? 

" Tum-tum-ti-tum." The music not only had begun, but 
it seemed to him as if it had always been playing. Why 
did they not start? It seemed an easy matter for eight 
grown men to walk up a broad aisle together, two by two, 
a certain distance apart. They had done it half a dozen 
times the night before. It was perfectly simple. They 
were to be two pews apart. Or was it three pews? "Ti- 
tum-tum-ti-tum." 

He didn't know which it was, but it was no affair of 
his, anyway. All he had to do was to stay on his chalk 
mark until it was time for him to go to that other chalk 
mark over there to receive her. There it was, a little rubbed 
out, to be sure, but seeming to him like the guiding star 
to the path of matrimony. A scarcely breathed, <c They 're 
off ! " at his elbow, brought him back to earth again. They 



SELECTIONS 305 

were coming through the door. It was two pews apart after 
all. 

" Tum-tum-ti-tum-tum." 

The two ushers in the lead were so near him that he 
could see the pearls on the pins he had given them. There 
she was, Heaven bless her ! What was the sense of all this 
bother ? Why could n't he rush down the aisle and get her, 
all by himself ? His eye fell upon the relentless chalk mark 
before him, and he shifted his weight uneasily from one 
foot to the other. 

The two files of ushers had begun to deploy on either 
side of him, each man trying to keep one eye on his align- 
ment, and with the other to steer for his own particular 
chalk mark. As the last one disappeared from view behind 
him, he felt that he never wanted to see one of them again 
after the way they had just treated him. The next moment 
the bridesmaids were tripping by him, guided to their posi- 
tions by that unerring instinct in regard to all that pertains 
to weddings, which is every woman's birthright. 

Then the final " tum-tum-ti-tum " rang out triumphantly 
into every corner of the church. He rushed to the now 
benignly-inviting chalk mark, and in an instant her hand 
was in his own. 

Anonymous. 



LOVE IN A BALLOON 

SOME time ago I was staying with Sir George Flasher, 
with a great number of people there — -all kinds of 
amusements going on : driving, riding, fishing, shooting, — 
everything in fact. Sir George's daughter, Fanny, was often 
my companion in these expeditions, and I was considerably 
struck with her; for she was a girl to whom the epithet 
" stunning " applies better than any other I am acquainted 
with. She could ride like Mmrod, she could drive like Jehu, 
she could dance like Terpsichore, she walked like Juno, — 
and she looked like Venus. I 've even seen her smoke ! 

Oh, she was a stunner! you should have heard that girl 
whistle, and laugh — you should have heard her laugh! 
She was truly a delightful companion. We rode together, 
drove together, fished together, walked together, danced to- 
gether, sang together — I called her Fanny, and she called 

20 



306 SELECTED READINGS 

me Tom. All this could have but one termination, you 
know. I fell in love with her, and determined to take the 
first opportunity of proposing. So one day when we were 
out together fishing on the lake, I went down on my knees 
among the gudgeons, seized her hand, pressed it to my 
waistcoat, and in burning accents entreated her to become 
my wife. 

Don't be a fool. Now drop it, do, and put me a fresh 



« 



" Oh, Fanny ! Don't talk about worms when marriage is 
in question. Only say — " 

" I '11 tell you what it is, now, if you don't drop it I '11 
pitch you out of the boat." 

" I did not drop it, and — I give you my word of honor 
— with a sudden shove she sent me flying into the water. 
Then, seizing the sculls, with a stroke or two she put 
several yards between us, and burst into a fit of laughter 
that fortunately prevented her from going any further. I 
swam up and climbed into the boat. " Jenkins," said I to 
myself, " revenge ! revenge ! " I disguised my feelings. I 
laughed — hideous mockery of mirth — I laughed, pulled 
to the bank, went to the house, and changed my clothes. 
When I appeared at the dinner table, I perceived that every 
one had been informed of my ducking. Universal laughter 
greeted me. During dinner Fanny repeatedly whispered 
to her neighbor, and glanced at me. Smothered laughter 
invariably followed. " Jenkins," said I, " revenge ! revenge ! " 

The opportunity soon offered. There was to be a balloon 
ascent from the lawn, and Fanny had tormented her father 
into letting her ascend with the aeronaut. I instantly took 
my plans ; bribed the aeronaut to plead illness at the moment 
the machine was about to rise; learned from him the man- 
agement of the balloon, — though I understood that pretty 
well before, — and calmly awaited the result. The day came. 
The weather was fine. The balloon was inflated. Fanny 
was in the car. Everything was ready — when the aeronaut 
suddenly fainted. He was carried into the house, and Sir 
George accompanied him. Fanny was in despair. 

" Am I to lose my air expedition ? Some one understands 
the management of this thing, surely ! Nobody ? Tom, you 
understand it, don't you?" 

" Perfectly." 

" Come along, then. Quick, before papa comes back ! " 



SELECTIONS 307 

The company in general endeavored to dissuade her from 
her project; but of course in vain. After a decent show of 
hesitation. I climbed into the car. The balloon was cast 
off, and rapidly sailed heavenward. There was not a breath 
of wind, and we rose straight up. We went above the house, 
and she laughed, and said, " How jolly ! " 

We were higher than the highest trees, and she smiled, 
and said it was very kind of me to come with her. We 
were so high that the people below looked mere specks, 
and she hoped that I thoroughly understood the manage- 
ment of the balloon. Now was my time. 

" I understand the going up part, to come down is not 
so easy." 

" What do you mean ? " 

" Why, when you want to go up faster, you throw some 
sand overboard," I replied, suiting the action to the word. 

« Don't be foolish, Tom." 

" Foolish ? dear, no ; but whether I go along the ground 
or up in the air I like to go the pace ; and so do you, Fanny, 
I know. Go it, you cripples ! " and over went another sand- 
bag. 

" Why, you 're mad, surely ! " 

" Only with love, my dear, only with love for you. Oh, 
Fanny, I adore you ! Say you will be my wife ! " 

" I gave you an answer the other day, one which I think 
you should have remembered." 

"I remember it perfectly, but I intend to have a dif- 
ferent reply from that. You see those five sand-bags. I 
shall ask you five times to become my wife. Every time 
jou refuse I shall throw over a sand-bag. So, lady fair, re- 
consider your decision, and consent to become Mrs. Jenkins." 

" I won't. I never will. And let me tell you that you 
are acting in a very ungentlemanly way to press me thus." 

" You acted in a very ladylike way the other day, did 
you not — when you knocked me out of the boat?" She 
laughed again, for she was a plucky girl and no mistake — 
a very plucky girl. " However," I went on, " it 's no good 
to argue about it — will you promise to give me your hand ? " 

" Never ! I '11 go to Ursa Major first ; though I 've got a 
big enough bear here, in all conscience." 

She looked so pretty that I was almost inclined to let 
her off, — I was only trying to frighten her, of course, — 
I knew how high we could go safely, well enough, and how 



308 SELECTED READINGS 

valuable the life of Jenkins was to his country, — but reso- 
lution is one of the strong points of my character, and when 
I've begun a thing I like to carry it through; so I threw 
over another sand-bag, and whistled the Dead March in 
" Saul." 

" Come, Mr. Jenkins, come, Tom, let us descend now, 
and I '11 promise to say nothing whatever about this." 

I continued the execution of the Dead March. 

" But if you do not begin the descent at once I '11 tell 
papa the moment I set foot on the ground." 

I laughed, seized another bag, and looking steadily at her, 
said, " Will you promise to give me your hand ? " 

" I 've answered you already." 

Over went the sand, and the solemn notes of the Dead 
March resounded through the car. 

" I thought you were a gentleman ; but I find I was mis- 
taken. Why, a chimney-sweeper would not treat a lady in 
such a way. Do you know you are risking your own life 
as well as mine by your madness ? " 

I explained that I adored her so much that to die in 
her company would be perfect bliss, so that I begged 
she would not consider my feelings at all. She dashed 
her beautiful hair from her face, and, standing perfectly 
erect, said, "I command you to begin the descent this 
instant ! " 

The Dead March, whistled in a manner essentially gay 
and lively, was the only response. After a few minutes' 
silence, I took up another bag, and said, "We are getting 
rather high; if you do not decide soon we shall have 
Mercury coming to tell us that we are trespassing : — will 
you promise me your hand?" 

She sat in sulky silence in the bottom of the car. I 
threw over the sand. Then she tried another plan. Throw- 
ing herself upon her knees, and bursting into tears, she said, 
" Oh, forgive me for what I did the other day. It was 
very wrong; and I am very sorry. Take me home, and I 
will be a sister to you." 

"Not a wife?"' 

"I can't! I can't!" 

Over went the fourth bag. I began to think she would 
beat me after all ; for I did not like the idea of going much 
higher. I would not give in just yet, however. I whistled 
for a few minutes, to give her time for reflection, and then 



SELECTIONS 309 

said, " Fanny, they say that marriages are made in heaven : 
if you do not take care, ours will be solemnized there." 

I took up the fifth bag. " Come, my wife in life, or my 
companion in death: which is it to be? Come, Fanny, give 
your promise." 

I could hear her sobs. I'm the softest creature breath- 
ing, and would not pain any living thing, and I confess 
she had beaten me. I forgave her the ducking; I forgave 
her for rejecting me. I was on the point of flinging the 
bag back into the car, and saying, " Dearest Fanny, forgive 
me for frightening you. Marry whomsoever you wish. Give 
your lovely hand to the lowest groom in your stables ; endow 
with your priceless beauty the chief of the Pankiwanki 
Indians. Whatever happens, Jenkins is your slave — your 
dog — your footstool." I was just on the point of saying 
this, I repeat, when Fanny suddenly looked up, and said, 
with a queerish expression on her face: 

"You need not throw that last bag over. I promise to 
give you my hand." 

"With all your heart?" 

" With all my heart." 

I tossed the bag into the bottom of the car, and opened 
the valve. The balloon descended. Will you believe it ? — 
when we reached the ground, and the balloon had been given 
over to its recovered master, when I had helped Fanny 
tenderly to the earth, and turned toward her to receive 
anew the promise of her affection and her hand, — will you 
believe it? — she gave me a box on the ear that upset me 
against the car, and running to her father, who at that 
moment came up, she related to him and to the assembled 
company what she called my disgraceful conduct in the 
balloon, and ended by informing me that all of her hand 
that I was likely to get had already been bestowed upon 
my ear, which she assured me had been given with all her 
heart. 

Litchfield Moseley. 

Abridged by Anna Morgan. 

The selection begins with easy, interested narrative, requiring the 
suggestion of a smile to indicate its humorous quality. Driving, etc., 
are to be given with an upward inflection on each word, thus avoiding 
the monotony of a list. A pause after daughter, for three reasons: 
it is a proper name, it is the name of the heroine, and it is to distin- 
guish this from other possible daughters; was often my companion on 



310 SELECTED READINGS 

these expeditions demands animation, as of a pleasant recollection; 
struck is emphatic ; a pause is needed before stunning to bring it out 
more clearly. She could ride like Nimrod, etc., is said boastfully, with 
a confidential turn following an ellipsis as he concludes, I've even seen 
her smoke! 

A gentle rubbing of the palms of the hands together accompanies 
Oh, she was a stunner! At whistle, if it is possible, there should be a 
whistle, and at laugh a hearty laugh. Increasing emphasis with a 
slowly falling inflection marks the phrases ending together, which are 
uttered in a confidential tone ; a pause before Fanny and before Tom 
is requisite. Do not say termunation. Pause before saying proposing, 
to excite inquiry. What follows of this paragraph may be called 
"shuttle work," a casting of the successive phrases back and forth. 
Learn what gudgeons means. A period of suspense before my wife, 
which is to be said with feeling. 

Fanny's response is said peevishly, as to one spoiling sport. Tom's 
reply expresses disgust. Fanny's tone in I'll tell you what, now changes 
to petulance. Astonishment is shown in she sent me flying, etc. Re- 
venge! revenge! is repeated at the close of the paragraph, giving an 
opportunity to show the various degrees of feeling involved. Hideous 
mockery of mirth is said in a lower key, being parenthetical. Do not 
say unuversal. There are five syllables in in-va-ri-a-bly , and the sec- 
ond a has the sound of the second e in ever. 

Opportunity is not pronounced as if spelled ahpportoonuty : short o 
is to be sounded clearly at the beginning ; the second o is the neutral 
vowel ; the u is long with its initial y sound distinct, and the i is not 
the neutral vowel. Offered is not awffered — the initial sound is short 
o again, somewhat narrowed by the / following. A-er-o-naut, in four 
syllables, the first vowel having the sound of long a. Not b'loon, nor 
manugemunt. 

Fanny's Am I to lose, etc., begins in a vixenish tone, changing to 
entreaty when she addresses Tom. Come along, then, is said hurriedly. 

A slight delay before decent to express concealed intention. Do 
not say hessitation. How jolly! has a laugh under it, a giggle of satis- 
faction at having had her own way. 

Very kind of me is at once patronizing and slightly apprehensive, 
and the apprehension deepens in she hoped that I thoroughly understood, 
etc. Now was my time is said slowly and with great satisfaction. 

I understand, etc., offers an opening for the student's invention. 
It may be treated lightly or seriously, or with a mixture of both coupled 
with a certain note of recklessness. 

What do you mean? shows startled inquiry. 

Tom's reply, Foolish? has a pronounced upward inflection. 

The hands are not to be kept idle while the story of the sand-bags 
is told. The action is to be suited to the word, by suggestion. Go it, 
you cripples! shows reckless gayety. 

Why, you're mad, surely! expresses apprehension approaching 
terror. 

Only with love, etc., begins jocosely and ends with affectionate 
avowal. 

/ gave you an answer, etc., is both flippant and spiteful. 

The gesture indicating those five sand-bags is to be held through the 
sentence. Between Mrs. and Jenkins there is a decided pause. 

/ won't, etc., splutters like a Catherine wheel. 



SELECTIONS 311 

Irony is shown in a very ladylike way, and very plucky is said slowly 
and emphatically. 

In the succeeding demands for Fanny's hand deepening degrees of 
solicitude are demanded. 

Hesitate before Ursa Major. Big enough bear is to be said through 
the teeth. 

Tender recollection is shown in She looked so pretty. Val-u-a-ble, 
not voluble. I knew how, etc., through the parenthesis, is in the nature 
of brag. Not ressolootion. My is emphatic in my character. Whistled, 
etc., has the upward inflection. 

Come, Mr. Jenkins, etc., shows diplomacy and wheedling. 

/ continued, etc., is said with an up and down modulation, using 
the eye to express fixed determination and intention. 

But if you do not, etc., is a distinct threat. 

Will you promise? has the downward inflection. 

/ 've answered you already is said with indignation. 

/ thought you were a gentleman is wholly sarcastic. A pause before 
chimney-sweeper to hint at the search for a term strong enough, while 
the voice is raised. The voice breaks a little at risking your own life 
to show that she is baffled. 

/ command you is said with full force. 

Will you promise? shows still greater intensity. It is the fourth 
demand. 

Oh, forgive me, etc., is not real crying, but an attractive imitation 
of it. 

/ took up the fifth bag is said slowly and with fixed resolve. Which 
is it to be? is said with a rising voice. 

Slave, dog, footstool are increasingly emphatic. 

You need not throw, etc., is said cunningly and deceitfully. 

Regret, delight at the girl's shrewdness, unpleasant recollection, 
and the sense of fun at the humor of the situation combine in the clos- 
ing paragraph. 



IN THE PANTRY 

OH, dear ! Just see that little pie, •*- mince, and it smells 
so good ! 
Ma said I must n't touch it ; but I '11 just bet she would 
If she stood here a-starvin', and all for want of food. 
When persons see pies made for 'em they eat 'em; wish I 

could. 
This is the worst old pantry, it 's full of things to eat : 
There's the jam I take to recess — 'way up there — it's 

awful sweet. 
Ma said if I talk naughty, or disobey, or lie, 
I won't go to heaven and play harps when I die. 
What is heaven, anyhow ? Ted ain't goin ? there, 
'Cause he hooked on bob-sleds, and Ma told him not to dare. 



312 SELECTED READINGS 

She whipped him just the other day, and he said, Oh, he 'd 

quit! 
An' I saw him the next mornin' a-laughin' like he 'd split, 
An 5 go in' just a-flyin' on behind a big bob-sled ; 
He never saw me lookin' ; but I don't squeal on Ted. 
Oh ! little pie, you don't know what wicked folks there be 
A-tellin' fibs in this big world. There 's no one good but me. 
I don't see where heaven 's ever goin' to get a crowd. 
Our cook says the preacher '11 never go there she allowed, 
An' he says no one else will. — Oh, dear ! I wonder if one bite 
Is just as wicked as a pie ; I should n't think so, quite. — 
Our doctor won't go neither 'cause he said my aunt would die, 
An' now she 's as well as I am ; so that was most a lie. 
But he 'd look funny, anyhow, a-flyin' through the sky, 
'Cause he 's so awful big and fat. Oh ! would Ma miss that 

pie? 
Yes, 'cause there 's no more like it. — But I know a worse 

thing yet; 
It 's perfectly awful ! an' I never can forget : 
There 's no Saint Nicholas or Santa Claus for me or Ted ; 
'Cause the other night, long after she 'd sent us up to bed, 
We crept down to the parlor door, 
An' there was all our presents a-lyin' on the floor, 
An' Ma was sortin' candy ; an' we went back an' cried. 
"We never told ; but then we talked. — Now some one must 

have lied. — 
I don't believe there 's another soul but would eat that pie. — 
I don't think I 'd like heaven anyhow : it must be hard to fly. 
If Ma and Daddy told us fibs, an' Ted ain't anywhere, 
I '11 just bet a nickel there won't be nobody there. 
There 's Ma a-goin' down the street. Heaven 's so awful 

high, 
An' I '11 be so dreadful lonesome. — This is the bestest pie ! 

Mabel Dixon. 



VI 
SCENES AND DIALOGUES 



VI — SCENES AND DIALOGUES 



DIALOGUE BETWEEN NAPOLEON AND A 
STRANGE LADY* 

Scene from "The Man of Destiny" 

Lady. How can I thank you, General, for your protection ? 

Napoleon [turning on her suddenly]. My despatches: 
come ! [He puts out his hand for them.] 

Lady. General. [She involuntarily puts her hands on her 
fichu as if to protect something there.] 

Napoleon. You tricked that blockhead out of them. You 
disguised yourself as a man. I want my despatches. They 
are in the bosom of your dress, under your hands. 

Lady [quickly removing her hands]. Oh, how unkindly 
you are speaking to me ! [She takes her handkerchief from 
her fichu.] You frighten me. [She touches her eyes as if 
to wipe away a tear.] 

Napoleon. I see you don't know me, madam, or you 
would save yourself the trouble of pretending to cry. 

Lady [producing an effect of smiling through her tears']. 
Yes, I do know you. You are the famous General Buona- 
parte. [She gives the name a marked Italian pronunciation 
— Bwaw-na parr-te.] 

Napoleon [angrily, with the French pronunciation]. 
Bonaparte, madam, Bonaparte. The papers, if you please. 

Lady. But I assure you — [He snatches the handkerchief 
rudely from her.] General ! [Indignantly.] 

Napoleon [taking the other handkerchief from his 
breast]. You were good enough to lend one of your hand- 
kerchiefs to my lieutenant when you robbed him. [He looks 
at the two handkerchiefs.] They match one another. [He 
smells them.] The same scent. [He flings them down on 
the table.] I am waiting for the despatches. I shall take 
them, if necessary, with as little ceremony as the handker- 
chief, t 

* Copyright, 1905, by Brentano's. 

t This historical incident was used eighty years later, by M. Victorien Sardou, in 
his drama entitled " Dora." 



316 SELECTED READINGS 

Lady [in dignified reproof}. General: do you threaten 
women ? 

Napoleon [bluntly']. Yes. 

Lady [disconcerted, trying to gain time']. But I don't 
understand — I — 

Napoleon. You understand perfectly. You came here 
because your Austrian employers calculated that I was six 
leagues away. I am always to be found where my enemies 
don't expect me. You have walked into the lion's den. 
Come : you are a brave woman. Be a sensible one : I have 
no time to waste. The papers. [He advances a step 
ominously.] 

Lady [breaking down in the cMldish rage of impotence, 
and throwing herself in tears on a chair]. I brave! How 
little you know ! I have spent the day in an agony of fear. 
I have a pain here from the tightening of my heart at every 
suspicious look, every threatening movement. Do you think 
every one is as brave as you? Oh, why will not you brave 
people do the brave things? Why do you leave them to us, 
who have no courage at all ? I 'm not brave : I shrink from 
violence : danger makes me miserable. 

Napoleon [interested]. Then why have you thrust your- 
self into danger ? 

Lady. Because there is no other way : I can trust nobody 
else. And now it is all useless — all because of you, who have 
no fear, because you have no heart, no feeling, no — [She 
breaks off, and throws herself on her knees.] Ah, General, 
let me go: let me go without asking any questions. You 
shall have your despatches and letters : I swear it. 

Napoleon [holding out his hand]. Yes: I am waiting 
for them. [She gasps, daunted by his ruthless promptitude 
into despair of moving him by cajolery; but as she looks 
up perplexedly at him, it is plain that she is racking her 
brains for some device to outwit him. He meets her regard 
inflexibly.] 

Lady [rising at last with a quiet little sigh]. I will get 
them for you. They are in my room. [She turns to the door.] 

Napoleon. I shall accompany you, madam. 

Lady [drawing herself up with a noble air of offended 
delicacy], I cannot permit you, General, to enter my 
chamber. 

Napoleon. Then you shall stay here, madam, whilst I 
have your chamber searched for my papers. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 317 

Lady [spitefully, openly giving up her plan]. You may 
save yourself the trouble. They are not there. 

Napoleon. No : I have already told you where they are. 
[Pointing to her breast.~\ 

Lady [with pretty piteousness]. General: I only want 
to keep one little private letter. Only one. Let me have it. 

Napoleon [cold and stern}. Is that a reasonable demand, 
madam ? 

Lady [encouraged by his not refusing point-blank]. No; 
but that is why you must grant it. Are your own demands 
reasonable? Thousands of lives for the sake of your vic- 
tories, your ambitions, your destiny ! And what I ask is such 
a little thing. And I am only a weak woman, and you a 
brave man. [She looks at him with her eyes full of tender 
pleading and is about to kneel to him again.] 

Napoleon [brusquely]. Get up, get up. [He turns 
moodily away and takes a turn across the room, pausing for 
a moment to say, over his shoulder.] You're talking non- 
sense ; and you know it. [She gets up and sits down in al- 
most listless despair on the couch. When he turns and sees 
her there, he feels that his victory is complete, and that he 
may now indulge in a little play with his victim. He comes 
back and sits beside her. She looks alarmed and moves a 
little away from him; but a ray of rallying hope beams from 
her eye. He begins like a man enjoying some secret joke.] 
How do you know I am a brave man ? 

Lady [amazed]. You! General Buonaparte. [Italian 
pronunciation.] 

Napoleon. Yes, I, General Bonaparte. [Emphasizing 
the French pronunciation.] 

Lady. Oh, how can you ask such a question ? You ! Who 
stood only two days ago at the bridge at Lodi, with the air 
full of death, fighting a duel with cannons across the river! 
[Shuddering.] Oh, you do brave things. 

Napoleon. So do you. 

Lady. I! [With a sudden odd thought.] Oh! Are you 
a coward? 

Napoleon [laughing grimly and pinching her cheek]. 
That is the one question you must never ask a soldier. The 
sergeant asks after the recruit's height, his age, his wind, 
his limb, but never after his courage. [He gets up and walks 
about with his hands behind him and his head bowed, chuck' 
ling to himself.] 



318 SELECTED READINGS 

Lady [as if she had found it no laughing matter]. Ah, 
you can laugh at fear ! Then you don't know what fear is. 

Napoleon [coming behind the couch]. Tell me this. 
Suppose you could get that letter by coming to me over the 
bridge at Lodi the day before yesterday ! Suppose there had 
been no other way, and that this was a sure way — if only 
you escaped the cannon! [She shudders and covers her eyes 
for a moment with her hands.] Would you have been afraid ? 

Lady. Oh, horribly afraid, agonizingly afraid. [She 
presses her hand on her heart.] It hurts only to imagine it. 

Napoleon [inflexibly]. Would you have come for the 
despatches ? 

Lady [overcome by the imagined horror]. Don't ask me. 
I must have come. 

Napoleon. Why ? 

Lady. Because I must. Because there would have been 
no other way. 

Napoleon [with conviction]. Because you would have 
wanted my letter enough to bear your fear. There is only 
one universal passion: fear. Of all the thousand qualities 
a man may have, the only one you will find as certainly in 
the youngest drummer boy in my army as in me, is fear. It 
is fear that makes men fight; it is indifference that makes 
them run away : fear is the mainspring of war. Fear ! — I 
know fear well, better than you, better than any woman. I 
once saw a regiment of good Swiss soldiers massacred by a 
mob in Paris because I was afraid to interfere: I felt my- 
self a coward to the tips of my toes as I looked on at 
it. Seven months ago I revenged my shame by pounding 
that mob to death with cannonballs. Well, what of that? 
Has fear ever held a man back from anything he really 
wanted — or a woman either ? Never. Come with me ; and 
I will show you twenty thousand cowards who will risk 
death every day for the price of a glass of brandy. And do 
you think there are no women in the army, braver than the 
men, because their lives are worth less ? Psha ! I think 
nothing of your fear or your bravery. If you had had to 
come across to me at Lodi, you would not have been afraid; 
once on the bridge, every other feeling would have gone 
down before the necessity — the necessity — for making your 
way to my side and getting what you wanted. 

And now, suppose you had done all this — suppose you had 
come safely out with that letter in your hand, knowing that 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 319 

when the hour came, your fear had tightened not your heart, 
but your grip of your own purpose — that it had ceased to 
be fear, and had become strength, penetration, vigilance, iron 
resolution — how would you answer then if you were asked 
whether you were a coward ! 

Lady [rising]. Ah, you are a hero, a real hero. 

Napoleon. Pooh ! there 's no such thing as a real hero. 
[He strolls down the room, making light of her enthusiasm, 
but by no means displeased with himself for having evoked it.] 

Lady. Ah, yes, there is. There is a difference between 
what you call my bravery and yours. You wanted to win 
the battle of Lodi for yourself and not for any one else, 
did n't you ? 

Napoleon. Of course. [Suddenly recollecting himself.] 
Stop : no. {He pulls himself piously together, and says, like 
a man conducting a religious service.] I am only the servant 
of the French Eepublic, following numbly in the footsteps 
of the heroes of classical antiquity. I win battles for human- 
ity — for my country, not for myself. 

Lady [disappointed]. Oh, then you are only a womanish 
hero, after all. [She sits down again, all her enthusiasm 
gone, her elbow on the end of the couch, and her cheek 
propped on her hand.] 

Napoleon [greatly astonished] . Womanish ! 

Lady [listlessly]. Yes, like me. [With deep melancholy.] 
Do you think that if I only wanted those despatches for 
myself, I dare venture into a battle for them ? No : if that 
were all, I should not have the courage to ask to see you at 
your hotel, even. My courage is mere slavishness: it is of 
no use to me for my own purposes. It is only through love, 
through pity, through the instinct to save and protect some 
one else, that I can do the things that terrify me. 

Napoleon [contemptuously] . Pshaw! [He turns slight- 
ingly away from her.] 

Lady. Aha ! now you see that I 'm not really brave. [Re- 
lapsing into petulant listlessness.] But what right have you 
to despise me if you only win your battles for others — for 
your country? Through patriotism! That is what I call 
womanish : it is so like a Frenchman ! 

Napoleon [furiously]. I am no Frenchman. 

Lady [innocently], I thought you said you won the 
battle of Lodi for your country, General Bu — shall I pro- 
nounce it in Italian or French? 



320 SELECTED READINGS 

Napoleon. You are presuming on my patience, madam. 
I was born a French subject, but not in France. 

Lady [folding her arms on the end of the couch, and 
leaning on them with a marked access of interest in him]. 
You were not born a subject at all, I think. 

Napoleon [greatly pleased, starting on a fresh march]. 
Eh? Eh? You think not. 

Lady. I am sure of it. 

Napoleon. Well, well, perhaps not. {The self-complac- 
ency of his assent catches his own ear. Re stops sAort, red- 
dening. Then, composing himself into a solemn attitude, 
modelled on the heroes of classical antiquity, he takes a high 
moral tone.] But we must not live for ourselves alone, little 
one. Never forget that we should always think of others, 
and work for others, and lead and govern them for their own 
good. Self-sacrifice is the foundation of all true nobility of 
character. 

Lady [again relaxing her attitude with a sigh.] Ah, it 
is easy to see that you have never tried it, General. 

Napoleon [indignantly, forgetting all about Brutus and 
Scipio]. What do you mean by that speech, madam? 

Lady. Have n't you noticed that people always exaggerate 
the value of the things they have n't got ? The poor think 
they only need riches to be quite happy and good. Every- 
body worships truth, purity, unselfishness, for the same 
reason — because they have no experience of them. Oh, if 
they only knew! 

Napoleon [with angry derision]. If they only knew! 
Pray, do you know? 

Lady [with her arms stretched and her hands clasped on 
her knees, looking straight before her]. Yes. I had the 
misfortune to be born good. [Glancing up at him for a 
moment.] And it is a misfortune, I can tell you, General. 
I really am truthful and unselfish and all the rest of it; 
and it's nothing but cowardice; want of character; want 
of being really, strongly, positively oneself. 

Napoleon. Ha? [Turning to her quickly with a flash 
of strong interest.] 

Lady [earnestly, with rising enthusiasm]. What is the 
secret of your power? Only that you believe in yourself. 
You can fight and conquer for yourself and for nobody else. 
You are not afraid of your own destiny. You teach us what 
we all might be if we had the will and courage; and that 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 321 

[suddenly sinking on her knees before him'] is why we all 
begin to worship you. [She kisses his hands.] 

Napoleon [embarrassed']. Tut, tut! Pray rise, madam. 

Lady. Do not refuse my homage : it is your right. You 
will be emperor of France — 

Napoleon [hurriedly]. Take care! Treason! 

Lady [insisting]. Yes, emperor of France; then of 
Europe; perhaps of the world. I am only the first subject 
to swear allegiance. [Again kissing his hand.] My emperor ! 

Napoleon [overcome, raising her]. Pray, pray. No, no, 
little one : this is folly. Come : be calm, be calm. [Petting 
her.] There, there, my girl. 

Lady [struggling with happy tears]. Yes, I know it is 
an impertinence in me to tell you what you must know far 
better than I do. But you are not angry with me, are you? 

Napoleon. Angry ! No, no : not a bit, not a bit. Come : 
you are a very clever and sensible and interesting little 
woman. [He pats her on the cheek.] Shall we be friends ? 

Lady [enraptured]. Your friend! You will let me be 
your friend! Oh! [She offers him both her hands with a 
radiant smile.] You see : I show my confidence in you. 

Napoleon [with a yell of rage, his eyes flashing] . What ! 

Lady. What's the matter? 

Napoleon. Show your confidence in me ! So that I may 
show my confidence in you in return by letting you give me 
the slip with the despatches, eh? Ah, Dalila, Dalila, you 
have been trying your tricks on me; and I have been as 
great a gull as my jackass of a lieutenant. [He advances 
threateningly on her.] Come: the despatches. Quick: I 
am not to be trifled with now. 

Lady [flying round the couch]. General — 

Napoleon. Quick, I tell you. [He passes swiftly up the 
middle of the room and intercepts her as she makes for the 
vineyard.] 

Lady [at bay, confronting him] . You dare address me in 
that tone ! 

Napoleon. Dare ! 

Lady. Yes, dare. Who are you that you should presume 
to speak to me in that coarse way? Oh, the vile, vulgar 
Corsican adventurer comes out in you very easily. 

Napoleon [beside himself]. You she-devil ! [Savagely.] 
Once more, and only once, will you give me those papers or 
shall I tear them from you — by force ? 

21 



322 SELECTED READINGS 

Lady [letting her hands fall]. Tear them from me — 
by force ! [As he glares at her like a tiger about to spring, 
she crosses her arms on her breast in the attitude of a martyr. 
The gesture and pose instantly awaken his theatrical in- 
stinct: he forgets his rage in the desire to show her that in 
acting, too, she has met her match. He keeps her a moment 
in suspense; then suddenly clears up his countenance; puis 
his hands behind him with provoking coolness; looks at her 
up and down a couple of times; takes a pinch of snuff; 
wipes his fingers carefully and puts up his handkerchief, 
her heroic pose becoming more and more ridiculous all the 
time.] 

Napoleon" [at last]. "Well? 

Lady [disconcerted, but with her arms still crossed de- 
votedly]. Well: what are you going to do? 

Napoleon. Spoil your attitude. 

Lady. You brute ! [Abandoning the attitude, she comes 
to the end of the couch, where she turns with her back to it, 
leaning against it and facing him with her hands behind 
her.] 

Napoleon. Ah, that ? s better. Now listen to me. I like 
you. What ? s more, I value your respect. 

Lady. You value what you have not got, then. 

Napoleon. I shall have it presently. Now attend to me. 
Suppose I were to allow myself to be abashed by the respect 
due to your sex, your beauty, your heroism, and all the rest 
of it? Suppose I, with nothing but such sentimental stuff 
to stand between these muscles of mine and those papers 
which you have about you, and which I want and mean to 
have: suppose I, with the prize within my grasp, were to 
falter and sneak away with my hands empty ; or, what would 
be worse, cover up my weakness by playing the magnanimous 
hero, and sparing you the violence I dared not use, would 
you not despise me from the depths of your woman's soul? 
Would any woman be such a fool? Well, Bonaparte can 
rise to the situation and act like a woman when it is neces- 
sary. Do you understand? 

[The lady, without speaking, stands upright, and takes a 
packet of papers from her bosom. For a moment she has 
an intense impulse to dash them in his face. But her good 
breeding cuts her off from any vulgar method of relief. She 
hands them to him politely, only averting her head. The 
moment he takes them, she hurries across to the other side 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 323 

of the room; covers her face with her hands; and sits down, 
with her body turned away to the back of the chair. 

Napoleon [gloating over the paper]. Aha! That's 
right. That 's right. [Before opening them he looks at her 
and says.] Excuse me. [He sees that she is hiding her face.] 
Very angry with me, eh? [He unties the packet, the seal 
of which is already broken, and puts it on the table to ex- 
amine its contents.] 

Lady [quietly, taking down her hands and showing that 
she is not crying, but only thinking]. No. You were right. 
But I am sorry for you. 

Napoleon [pausing in the act of taking the uppermost 
paper from the packet]. Sorry for me! Why? 

Lady. I am going to see you lose your honor. 

Napoleon. Hm ! Nothing worse than that ? [He takes 
up the paper.] 

Lady. And your happiness. 

Napoleon. Happiness, little woman, is the most tedious 
thing in the world to me. Should I be what I am if I cared 
for happiness ? Anything else ? 

Lady. Nothing — [He interrupts her with an exclama- 
tion of satisfaction. She proceeds quietly.] except that you 
will cut a very foolish figure in the eyes of France. 

Napoleon [quickly]. What? [The hand holding the 
paper involuntarily drops. The lady looks at him enigmatic- 
ally in tranquil silence. He throws the letter down and 
breaks out in a torrent of scolding.] What do you mean? 
Eh? Are you at your tricks again? Do 3^ou think I don't 
know what these papers contain ? I '11 tell you. First, my 
information as to Beaulieu's retreat. There are only two 
things he can do — leather-brained idiot that he is ! — shut 
himself up in Mantua or violate the neutrality of Venice 
by taking Peschiera. You are one of old Leatherbrain's 
spies : he has discovered that he has been betrayed, and has 
sent you to intercept the information at all hazards — as if 
that could save him from me, the old fool ! The other papers 
are only my usual correspondence from Paris, of which you 
know nothing. 

Lady [prompt and businesslike] . General : let us make a 
fair division. Take the information your spies have sent you 
about the Austrian army, and give me the Paris correspond- 
ence. That will content me. 

Napoleon [his breath taken away by the coolness of the 



324 SELECTED READINGS 

proposal]. A fair di — [He gasps.] It seems to me, 
madam, that you have come to regard my letters as your 
own property, of which I am trying to rob you. 

Lady [earnestly]. No: on my honor I ask for no letter 
of yours — not a word that has been written by you or to 
you. That packet contains a stolen letter: a letter written 
by a woman to a man — a man not her husband — a letter 
that means disgrace, infamy — 

Napoleon. A love letter? 

Lady [bitter-sweetly] . What else but a love letter could 
stir up so much hate? 

Napoleon. Why is it sent to me? To put the husband 
in my power, eh? 

Lady. No, no : it can be of no use to you : I swear that it 
will cost you nothing to give it to me. It has been sent to you 
out of sheer malice — solely to injure the woman who wrote it. 

Napoleon. Then why not send it to her husband instead 
of to me? 

Lady [completely taken aback]. Oh! [Sinking back into 
the chair.] I — I don't know. [She breaks down.] 

Napoleon. Aha ! I thought so : a little romance to get 
the papers back. [He throws the packet on the table and 
confronts her with cynical good-humor.] Per Bacco, little 
woman, I can't help admiring you. If I could lie like that, 
it would save me a great deal of trouble. 

Lady [wringing her hands.] Oh, how I wish I really had 
told you some lie ! You would have believed me then. The 
truth is the one thing that nobody will believe. 

Napoleon [with coarse familiarity, treating her as if she 
were a vivandiere] . Capital ! Capital ! [He puts his hands 
behind him on the table, and lifts himself onto it, sitting 
with his arms akimbo and his legs wide apart.] Come: I 
am a true Corsican in my love for stories. But I could tell 
them better than you if I set my mind to it. Next time you 
are asked why a letter compromising a wife should not be 
sent to her husband, answer simply that the husband would 
not read it. Do you suppose, little innocent, that a man 
wants to be compelled by public opinion to make a scene, to 
fight a duel, to break up his household, to injure his career 
by a scandal, when he can avoid it all by taking care not to 
know? 

Lady [revolted]. Suppose that packet contained a letter 
about your own wife? 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 325 

Napoleon [offended, coming off the table]. You are im- 
pertinent, madam. 

Lady [humbly]. I beg your pardon. Caesar's wife is 
above suspicion. 

Napoleon [with a deliberate assumption of superiority']. 
You have committed an indiscretion. I pardon you. In 
future, do not permit yourself to introduce real persons into 
your romances. 

Lady [politely ignoring a speech which is to her only a 
breach of good manners, and rising to move toward the. 
table]. General: there really is a woman's letter there. 
[Pointing to the packet]. Give it to me. 

Napoleon [with brute conciseness, moving so as to pre- 
vent her getting too near the letters]. Why? 

Lady. She is an old friend: we were at school together. 
She has written to me imploring me to prevent the letter 
falling into your hands. 

Napoleon. Why has it been sent to me? 

Lady. Because it compromises the director Barms. 

Napoleon [frowning, evidently startled], Barras! 
[Haughtily.] Take care, madam. The director Barras is 
my attached personal friend. 

Lady [nodding placidly]. Yes. You became friends 
through your wife. 

Napoleon. Again! Have I not forbidden you to speak 
of my wife? [She keeps looking curiously at him, taking 
no account of the rebuke. More and more irritated, he drops 
his haughty manner, of which he is himself impatient, and 
says suspiciously, lowering his voice.] Who is this woman 
with whom you sympathize so deeply? 

Lady. Oh, General ! How could I tell you that ? 

Napoleon [ill-humoredly, beginning to walk about again 
in angry perplexity]. Ay, ay; stand by one another. You 
are all the same, you women. 

Lady [indignantly]. We are not all the same, any more 
than you are. Do you think that if I loved another man, 
I should pretend to go on loving my husband, or be afraid 
to tell him or all the world? But this woman is not made 
that way. She governs men by cheating them: and [with 
disdain] they like it, and let her govern them. [She sits 
down again, with her back to him.] 

Napoleon [not attending to her]. Barras, Barras! 
[Turning very threateningly to her, his face darkening.] 



326 SELECTED READINGS 

Take care, take care: do you hear? You may go too 
far. 

Lady [innocently turning her face to him] . What 's the 
matter ? 

Napoleon. What are you hinting at? Who is this 
woman ? 

Lady [meeting his angry searching gaze with tranquil 
indifference as she sits looking up at him, with her right arm 
resting lightly along the back of her chair, and one knee 
crossed over the other]. A vain, silly, extravagant creature, 
with a very able and ambitious husband who knows her 
through and through — knows that she has lied to him 
about her age, her income, her social position, about every- 
thing that silly women lie about — knows that she is in- 
capable of fidelity to any principle or any person: and yet 
could not help loving her — could not help his man's instinct 
to make use of her for his own advancement with Barras. 

Napoleon" [in a stealthy, coldly furious whisper]. This 
is your revenge, you she-cat, for having had to give me the 
letters. 

Lady. Nonsense ! or do you mean that you are that sort 
of man? 

Napoleon" [exasperated, clasps his hands behind him, 
his fingers twitching, and says, as he walks irritably away 
from her to the fireplace]. This woman will drive me out 
of my senses. [To her.] Be gone. 

Lady [seated immovably]. Not without that letter. 

Napoleon. Be gone, I tell you. [Walking from the fire- 
place to the vineyard and back again to the table.] You 
shall have no letter. I don't like you. You 're a detestable 
woman, and as ugly as Satan. I don't choose to be pestered 
by strange women. Be off. [He turns his back on her. In 
quiet amusement, she leans her cheek on her hand and laughs 
at him. He turns again, angrily mocking her.] Ha! ha! 
ha ! what are you laughing at ? 

Lady. At you, General. I have often seen persons of 
your sex getting into a pet and behaving like children; but 
I never saw a really great man do it before. 

Napoleon [brutally, flinging the words in her face]. 
Pooh : flattery ! flattery ! Coarse, impudent flattery ! 

Lady [springing up with a bright flush in her cheeks]. 
Oh, you are too bad. Keep your letters. Eead the story of 
your own dishonor in them: and much good they may do 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 327 

you. Good-bye. [She goes indignantly toward the inner 
door.] 

Napoleon. My own — ! Stop. Come back. Come back, 
I order you. [She proudly disregards his savagely per- 
emptory tone and continues on her way to the door. He 
rushes at her; seizes her by the wrist; and drags her back.] 
Now, what do you mean? Explain. Explain, I tell you, 
or — [Threatening her. She looks at him with unflinching 
defiance.] Errr! you obstinate devil, you. Why can't you 
answer a civil question? 

Lady [deeply offended by his violence]. Why do you ask 
me? You have the explanation. 

Napoleon. Where ? 

Lady [pointing to the letters on the table]. There. You 
have only to read it. [He snatches the packet up; hesitates; 
looks at her suspiciously; and throws it down again.] 

Napoleon. You seem to have forgotten your solicitude 
for the honor of your old friend. 

Lady. She runs no risk now: she does not quite under- 
stand her husband. 

Napoleon. I am to read the letter, then ? [He stretches 
out his hand as if to take up the packet again, with his eye 
on her.] 

Lady. I do not see how you can very well avoid doing 
so now. [He instantly withdraws his hand.] Oh, don't be 
afraid. You will find many interesting things in it. 

Napoleon. For instance ? 

Lady. For instance, a duel — with Barras, a domestic 
scene, a broken household, a public scandal, a checked career, 
all sorts of things. 

Napoleon. Hm ! [He looks at her; takes up the packet 
and looks at it, pursing his lips and balancing it in his 
hands; looks at her again; passes the packet into his left 
hand and puts it behind his back, raising his right to scratch 
his head as he turns and goes up to the edge of the vineyard, 
where he stands for a moment looking out into the vines, 
deep in thought. The lady watches him in silence, some- 
what slightingly. Suddenly he turns, comes back again, full 
of force and decision.] I grant your request, madam. Your 
courage and resolution deserve to succeed. Take the letters 
for which you have fought so well; and remember hence- 
forth that you found the vile, vulgar Corsican adventurer 
as generous to the vanquished after the battle as he was 



328 SELECTED READINGS 

resolute in the face of the enemy before it. [He offers her 
the packet.] 

Lady [without talcing it, looking hard at him]. What 
are you at now, I wonder? [He dashes the packet furiously 
to the floor.] Aha ! I have spoiled that attitude, I think. 
[She makes him a pretty mocking curtsey.] 

Napoleon" [snatching it up again]. Will you take the 
letters and be gone? [Advancing and thrusting them upon 
her.] 

Lady [escaping around the table]. No: I don't want 
your letters. 

Napoleon. Ten minutes ago, nothing else would satisfy 
you. 

Lady [keeping the table carefully between them]. Ten 
minutes ago you had not insulted me past all bearing. 

Napoleon. I — [swallowing his spleen] I apologize. 

Lady [coolly]. Thanks. [With forced politeness he 
offers her the packet across the table. She retreats a step 
out of his reach and says.] But don't you want to know 
whether the Austrians are at Mantua or Pesehiera? 

Napoleon. I have already told you that I could conquer 
my enemies without the aid of spies, madam. 

Lady. And the letter ! Don't you want to read that ? 

Napoleon. You have said that it is not addressed to me. 
I am not in the habit of reading other people's letters. [He 
again offers the packet.] 

Lady. In that case there can be no objection to your 
keeping it. All I wanted was to prevent your reading it. 
[Cheerfully.] Good-afternoon, General. [She turns coolly 
toward the inner door.] 

Napoleon, [furiously flinging the packet on the couch]. 
Heaven grant me patience ! [He goes up determinedly and 
places himself before the door.] Have you any sense of 
personal danger? Or are you one of those women who like 
to be beaten black and blue? 

Lady. Thank you, General: I have no doubt the sen- 
sation is very voluptuous; but I had rather not. I simply 
want to go home: that's all. I was wicked enough to steal 
your despatches ; but you have got them back ; because [deli- 
cately reproducing his rhetorical cadence] you are as gen- 
erous to the vanquished after the battle as you are resolute 
in the face of the enemy before it. [Exit.] 

G. Bernard Shaw. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 329 



NATURE AND PHILOSOPHY 

[Mr. Jerningham, a middle-aged lawyer, is seated at a table 
or desk, poring over law boohs which are spread out 
before him. Enter Miss May.] 

MAY. Mr. Jerningham ! Mr. Jerningham ! Mr. Jern- 
ingham ! are you very busy ? 

Me. J. No, Miss May, not very. 

May. Because I want your opinion. 

Mr. J. In one moment. [Business.] Now, Miss May, 
I'm at your service. 

May. It 's a very important thing I want to ask you, and 
you mustn't tell any one I asked you, at least I'd rather 
you didn't. 

Me. J. I shall not speak of it, indeed, I shall probably 
not remember it. 

May. And you mustn't look at me, please, while I'm 
asking you. 

Me. J. I don't think I was looking, but if I was, I beg 
your pardon. 

May. Suppose a man — No, that 's not right. 

Me. J. You can take any hypothesis you please, but you 
must verify it afterwards, of course. 

May. Oh, do let me go on. Suppose a girl — Mr. Jern- 
ingham, I wish you would n't nod. 

Me. J. It was only to show that I followed you. 

May. Oh, of course you follow me, as you call it. Sup- 
pose a girl had two lovers — or, I ought to say, suppose there 
were two men who might be in love with a girl. 

Me. J. Only two? You see, any number of men might 
be in love with — 

May. Oh, we can leave the rest out; they don't matter. 

Mr. J. Very well, if they are irrelevant, we will put 
them aside. 

May. Suppose then that one of these men was, oh, aw- 
fully in love with the girl and proposed, you know. 

Mb. J. A moment. Let me take down his proposition. 
What was it? 

May. "Why, proposed to her; asked her to marry him. 

Me. J. Dear me, how stupid of me. I forgot — that 
special use of the word. Yes. 



330 SELECTED READINGS 

May. The girl likes him pretty well, and her people 
approve of him, and all that, you know. 

Mr. J. That simplifies the problem. 

May. But she's not in — in love with him, you know. 
She does n't really care for him — much. Do you under- 
stand ? 

Mr. J. Perfectly. It is a most natural state of mind. 

May. Well, then, suppose that there's another man — 
What are you writing? 

Mr. J. I only put down (B) — like that. 

May. Oh, you really are — But let me go on. The 
other man is a friend of the girl; he's very clever, — oh, 
fearfully clever, and he's rather handsome. You need not 
put that down. 

Mr. J. It is certainly not very material. 

May. And the girl is most awfully — she admires him 
tremendously; she thinks him just the greatest man that 
ever lived, you know. And she — she — 

Mr. J. I'm following. 

May. She'd think it better than the whole world if — 
if she could be anything to him, you know. 

Mr. J. You mean become his wife? 

May. Well, of course I do — at least, I suppose I do. 

Mr. J. You speak rather vaguely, you know. 

May. Well, yes, I did mean become his wife. 

Mr. J. Yes. Well? 

May. He does n't think much about those things. He 
likes her — I think he likes her — 

Mr. J. Well, doesn't dislike her? Shall we call him 
indifferent ? 

May. I don't know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don't 
think he thinks about it, you know. But she — she's 
pretty. You need n't put that down. 

Mr. J. I was not about to do so. 

May. She thinks life with him would be just heaven; 
and — and she thinks she would make him awfully happy. 
She would — would be so proud of him, you see. 

Mr. J. I see. Yes? 

May. And — I don't know how to put it, quite — she 
thinks that if he ever thought about it at all, he might care 
for her, because he does n't care for anybody else ; and she 's 
pretty — 

Mr. J. You said that before. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 331 

May. Oh, dear, I dare say I did. And most men care 
for somebody, don't they? some girl, I mean. 

Mr. J. Most men, no doubt. 

Mat. Well, then, what ought she to do ? It ? s not a real 
thing, you know, Mr. Jerningham. It's in — in a novel I 
was reading. 

Mr. J. Dear me! and it's quite an interesting case! 
Yes, I see. The question is, Will she act most wisely in 
accepting the offer of the man who loves her exceedingly, 
but for whom she entertains only a moderate affection — 

May. Yes, just a liking. He's just a friend. 

Mr. J. Exactly. Or in marrying the other whom she 
loves ex — 

May. That's not it. How can she marry him? He 
has n't — he has n't asked her, you see. 

Mr. J. True; I forgot. Let us assume, though, for the 
moment, that he has asked her. She would then have to con- 
sider which marriage would probably be productive of the 
greater sum total of — 

May. Oh, but you needn't consider that. 

Mr. J. But it seems the best logical order. We can 
afterwards make allowance for the element of uncertainty 
caused by — 

May. Oh, no, I don't want it like that. I know perfectly 
well which she would do if he — the other man, you know 
— asked her. 

Mr. J. You apprehend that — 

May. Never mind what I apprehend — Take it just as 
I told you. 

Mr. J. Very good : A has asked her hand, B has not. 

May. Yes. 

Mr. J. May I take it that, but for the disturbing in- 
fluence of B, A would be a satisfactory — er — candidate ? 

May. Ye-es — I think so. 

Mr. J. She, therefore, enjoys a certainty of considerable 
happiness if she marries A? 

May. Ye-es. Not perfect, because of — B, you know. 

Mr. J. Quite so, quite so; but still a fair amount of 
happiness. Is it not so? 

May. I don't — Well, perhaps. 

Mr. J. On the other hand, if B asked her, we are to 
postulate a higher degree of happiness for her? 

May. Yes, please, Mr. Jerningham — much higher. 



332 SELECTED READINGS 

Mr. J. For both of them? 

May. For her. Never mind him. 

Mr. J. Very well. That again simplifies the problem. 
But his asking her is a contingency only. 

May. Yes, that's all. 

Mr. J. My dear young lady, It now becomes a question 
of degree. How probable or improbable is it? 

May. I don't know. Not very probable — unless — 

Mr. J. Well? 

May. Unless he did happen to notice, you know. 

Mr. J. Ah, yes. We suppose that, if he thought of it, he 
would probably take the desired step ; that is, if he might be 
led to do so. Could she not — er — indicate her preference ? 

May. She might try — No, she could n't do much. You 
see, he — he does n't think about such things. 

Mr. J. I understand precisely. And it seems to me, Miss 
May, that in that very fact we find our solution. 

May. Do we? 

Mr. J. I think so. He has evidently no natural inclina- 
tion toward her, perhaps not toward marriage at all. 

May. You think B's feelings wouldn't be at all likely 
to — to change? 

Mr. J. That depends on the sort of man he is. But if 
he is an able man, with intellectual interests which engross 
him — a man who has chosen his path in life — a man to 
whom woman's society is not a necessity — 

May. He's just like that. 

Mr. J. Then I see not the least reason for supposing 
that his feelings will change. 

May. And would you advise her to marry the other — A ? 

Mr. J. Well, on the whole, I should. A is a good fel- 
low (I think we made A a good fellow?) He is a suitable 
match; his love for her is true and genuine — 

May. It's tremendous! 

Mr. J. Yes — and — er — extreme. She likes him. 
There is every reason to hope that her liking will develop 
into a sufficiently deep and stable affection. She will get 
rid of her folly about B and make A a good wife. Yes, 
Miss May, if I were the author of your novel, I should make 
her marry A and I should call that a happy ending. 

[A silence follows; it is broken by the philosopher.'] 

Mr. J. Is that all you wanted my opinion about, Miss 
May? 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 333 

May. Yes, I think so. I hope I have n't bored you. 

Mr. J. I have enjoyed the discussion extremely. I had 
no idea that novels raised points of such psychological in- 
terest. I must find time to read one. 

May. Don't you think that perhaps if B found out after- 
wards, — when she had married A, you know — that she had 
cared for him so very, very much, he might be a little sorry ? 

Mr. J. If he were a gentleman he would regret it deeply. 

May. I mean sorry on his own account, that — he had 
thrown away all that, you know? 

Mr. J. I think that it is very possible he would. I can 
well imagine it. 

May. He might never find any one to love him like that 
again. 

Mr. J. He probably would not. 

May. And — and most people like being loved, don't they ? 

Mr. J. To crave for love is an almost universal instinct, 
Miss May. 

May. Yes, almost. You see he'll get old and — and 
have no one to look after him. 

Mr. J. He will. 

May. And no home. 

Mr. J. Well, in a sense, none. But really you frighten 
me. I am a bachelor myself, you know, Miss May. 

May. Yes. 

Mr. J. And all your terrors are before me. 

May. Well, unless — 

Mr. J. Oh, we needn't have that unless. There is no 
unless about it. 

Exit Miss May 

Mr. J. Good gracious! {looking at watcK] two o'clock. 
I shall be late for lunch. [Rises with boohs and eye- 
glasses in hand, takes a few steps, pauses, speaks.] Bather 
an interesting story that of Miss May. I wonder which 
she '11 marry, A or B. [Exit.'] 

Anthony Hope. 

'Adapted by Anna Morgan, 



H 



YES AND NO 

E. So good of you to see me. You've been ill, I 
hear. 

She. Yes. [Languidly.] 

He. But you are better? 



334 SELECTED READINGS 

She. Yes. [Little brighter.'] 

He. Do you know I Ve been all but on the sick-list myself ? 
She. Yes. [Interested in a way.] 

He. Yes, I took an awful cold coming out from the 

Claytons' ball. Wasn't the weather dreadful that night? 
She. Yes. [Shivering.] 

He. And I had such a pain in my lungs — 
She. Yes? [Waking up.] 

He. And my throat was so sore — 
She. Yes? [Showing concern.] 

He. And I certainly thought I was in for pneumonia 

and all that sort of thing. Cheerful, wasn't it? 

She. Yes. [Half laughing.] 

He. Do you know I think I've got the biggest kind of 

a joke on Ned Sterns? 

She. Yes ? [Interested.] 

He. You know how dreadfully smashed he's been on 

Sadie Snowden? 

She. Yes? ['' Well, I should say so'' hind of a way.] 
He. Well, you know that tall cousin of hers that comes 

from Philadelphia to visit them? 

She. Yes. [Interested, and quickly.] 

He. Well, Ned asked Sadie to go to the opera with him the 

other night, and she wrote back that she was already engaged. 
She. Yes? [Quickly.] 

He. And of course Ned went to the opera and spied 

about until he saw them, and — 

She. Yes? [Quickly.] 

He. And he saw her with this great tall fellow he did n't 

know, and he got perfectly furious with jealousy — 
She. Yes. [Good joke idea.] 

He. And now he's making no end of a row, and wants 

me to demand his letters back. Should n't you think he 'd 

do it himself? 

She. Yes! , [Disgusted.] 

He. And all the time I know it is her cousin, and I won't 

tell him ! Is n't it an awfully good joke ? 

She. Yes. [Half-heartedly.] 

He. You don't seem very enthusiastic. Don't you think 

Ned deserves a lesson for being so unreasonable? 

She. Yes. [Decided.] 

He. After all, — women admire a man for being jealous. 

They think it shows he is really in love. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 335 

She. Yes — [Oh, I don't know! idea.] 

He. Don't you know that it is so? 
She. Yes — [Undecided.] 

He. Come ! you are trying to tease me. Should n't you 

want a man to be jealous ? 

She. Yes. [Decided.] 

He. [Laughing.] There, I said you 'd take Ned Sterns's 

part. [Short pause.] Now, don't you? 

She. Yes. [Undecided.] 

He. Women are never logical. I suppose they think 

their intuitions are above logic! 

She. Yes. [Decided.' 

He. Or below it. [Sotto voce. 

She. Yes! [Offended. 

He. Oh, don't be offended ; you know I always agree with 

you, even if I know you are wrong. It is only politic to 

agree with a woman, I always say. 

She. Yes! [Indeed! idea.] 

He. There now, I've got you all cross again. I don't 

know what I shall do to appease you. You are cross, are n't 

you? 

She. Yes. [Half laughing.] 

He. But not very, I think. [Sigh of relief.] I can al- 
ways make girls forgive me when they are provoked. 
She. Yes! [Indeed! idea.] 

He. Why, Lily Snowden said the other day that I talked 

so fast that nobody could get in a word edgeways. Now, 

you know better than that, don't you? 

She. Yes ! \Why, of course, idea.] 

He. And she was just as cross as she could be, because I 

would n't let her tell a story : but I talked right along, and 

the first thing she knew, she was laughing like anything. 

Don't you think she is a genre sort of girl? 

She. Yes? [Doubtful] 

He. The sort of girl who ought to be in a stage setting 

and be composed in a picture, you know — 

She. Yes! [Laughing.] 

He. Now you are a different sort of girl altogether. 
She. Yes? [Really, you think so? idea.] 

He. Oh, yes. You know Millie Mayle never has anything 

to say worth saying, and she is always interrupting one to 

say it. Now, if you '11 excuse me for saying it to your face, 

it is a pleasure to talk to you, you always have so much to 



336 SELECTED READINGS 

say. [She laughs.] Oh, you may laugh; but I'd rather 
talk to you than any girl I know. The girls are so full of 
nonsense and they keep saying so many senseless things that 
no sensible man can bear to talk to them. Do you know, 
I 've had a great notion of getting a lot of cards printed to 
send around as valentines, and the motto — 

She. Yes? [Getting up with interest.'] 

He. Was to be " Little folks should be seen, not heard." 
Don't you think that an original idea? 

She. Yes. [Disgusted.] 

He. Oh ! Now you think I 'm pitching into the girls 
again, and you don't like it; but don't be cross, for you see 
I especially want you to be good-natured this afternoon. I 
came for a special reason. 

She. Yes ? [Half suspecting.] 

He. I 've been trying for a long time to get up my cour- 
age. I 'm really awfully shy, and I 've always been shyer of 
you than of any one else. 

She. Yes? [Really?] 

He. Yes, I really have. I 've always liked you best of all 
the girls. I think we 've known each other long enough, so 
we can be perfectly frank — don't you? 

She. Yes. [Decided.] 

He. I wish — that is — do you know — I'm awfully 
fond of you ? 

She. Yes. [Matter of fact] 

He. Why, of course you must have known it. Have n't 
I always asked you first for the Germans ? You do dance so 
awfully well, too. 

She. Yes. [Of course I "know it, idea.] 

He. Of course you know it, and you must have seen 
what I meant by it. 

She. Yes. [Laughing.] 

He. Oh, you think I asked you because I dance so well. 
It was n't that, at least that was only part of it. 

She. Yes. [I thought so.] 

He. Oh, Miss — I wish I were sure you would answer 
one question the way I want you to; but then, the best way 
to find out whether you will or not is to ask it — is n't it ? 
She. Yes. [Helping him.] 

He. I never was any good at making speeches. I al- 
ways talk on the little scraps, and leave it for others to put 
in a word now and then. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 337 

She. Yes. [Yes you do, idea.'] 

He. It makes conversation all so dull to have it all one 

way, don't you think so? 

She. Yes. [Decided.'] 

He. But I wanted to ask you if you wanted — to — ask 

— you — if you would n't marry me ? 

She. No. [Quietly, without any pause.] 

He. Do you mean it? 

She. Yes. [Naturally.] 

He. Really? 

She. Yes. [Decided.] 

He. Why not? But then I don't suppose I have any 

right to ask that. I hope you 're not offended ? We can be 

friends still? 

She. Yes. [Oh, yes.] 

He. [Quichly.] I'm sorry. You are sure you are in earnest ? 
She. Yes. [Of course.] 

He. Then I suppose there is no good in urging you. I 

won't cry over spilt milk. Don't you think it is better to 

take things philosophically? 

She. Yes. [Rather piqued.] 

He. [Rising.] Well, that is off my mind, at any rate. 

I 've been meaning to ask you all winter. You are sure 

you're not offended? 

She. Yes. [Half offended.] 

He. So many girls are put out, you know, when they 

won't have a fellow. 

She. Yes ? [Quizzical] 

He. Yes. [Looking at his watch.] I hadn't any idea 

it was so late. Really, I ought to have gone long ago. 

Good-bye. Don't rise. Good-bye. 

Arlo Bates. 

PARRIED * 

HE. Ah, Miss Violet, I am delighted to find you alone ! 
She. Surely it is unwise to delight in an impos- 
sibility. 

He. An impossibility? 

She. Because no sooner do you find me than I cease 
to be alone. Besides I am here only for the moment; I 
am on my way to attend a meeting of — but that doesn't 
concern you ; it is only a woman's club. 

* By permission of the author and The Century Co. 
22 



338 SELECTED READINGS 

He. Whatever the paradox, I can only repeat, I am glad 
to find you by yourself. I have long been seeking an oppor- 
tunity to say to you — 

She. I know exactly what you are going to say. 

He. I am afraid not. I can only wish that you did. For 
sometimes when I am with you — 

She. Now, don't wander from the subject. You are 
afraid I shall guess what your errand is, and wish to fore- 
stall me. I delight in guessing, and I insist upon a trial 
of my wits. 

He. But this is trifling. I — 

She. Not to me. I assure you, I am really interested. 
I have always believed I should have made an excellent 
detective. 

He. Miss Violet, do you think ill of me if I insist for 
a moment upon being serious ? 

She. Am I then so frivolous? Do you not believe I am 
ever serious? Wait! I know what you wish to say, and I 
have my defence ready. I never said it. 

He. 'Said what? 

She. That there was no modern literature worth the 
reading. I wouldn't make so sweeping a statement. I 
said only that I preferred to read the old books first. I 
wouldn't be afraid to acknowledge the preference, even to 
you, though I know you are a champion of modern schools 
of fiction. You believe in realism, do you not? 

He. I care nothing about the question, one way or the 
other, just now. It was not what I had in mind at all. I 
wished to enter on a more personal subject. In short — 

She. Wait just a moment. You 're not fair. Don't tell 
me yet. I 've had only one guess, and the tradition of the 
ages allows three. Not literature, you say? Something 
more personal ? Let me see. Ah ! now I can do better. 

He. Excuse me ; I may have but a moment to see you. 

She. Why? Are you going away? 

He. Yes, and before I go — 

She. When do you leave us? I am surprised. I sup- 
posed you meant to stay another week at least. 

He. (Desperately.) I could stay on here with you forever. 

She. Then somebody must have offended you. I believe 
it was Miss Black. She is so sarcastic and clever. But you 
should n't mind what she says. She 's really a good-hearted 
girl. Why, do you know, she — 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 339 

He. I care nothing for Miss Black ; nothing whatever. 

She. There you are unjust. Let me tell you one instance 
of her kindness toward a poor helpless cripple. It was the 
most touching thing — 

He. Pardon me; please don't. Another time, if you 
like; not now. Now I must say a few words to you about 
myself. 

She. It won't take a minute to tell you. Still, if you in- 
sist upon being unjust to that young girl, why, all I can say 
is that I think you are very inconsiderate, to say the least. 
She is my best friend. 

He. I know — I know — I didn't come here to talk 
about Miss Black, and as my time is so short — 

She. True ! I forgot for the moment that you are going 
so soon. You did n't tell me just when, did you ? 

He. No. In fact I wanted to tell you how much your 
presence here had been to me — how dearly I shall prize — 

She. I beg you won't mention it. I have, of course, 
meant to be kind and courteous to my uncle's guests. 

He. Guests ? 

She. Yes, to all. Tell me, have I failed in my purpose ? 
Have you heard me criticised? I wouldn't ask, you know, 
for any idle reason. But, seriously, I am not always as con- 
siderate to others as — 

He. Considerate? How can I tell you — how express 
to you the feelings of happiness — 

She. Ah! that's really very gratifying — very. My 
uncle thinks me flighty, and I have tried to do my duty as, 
in a sense, the hostess. I am very much pleased by what 
you say; but I shall not take your words of compliment too 
seriously. 

He. You cannot take them too seriously. But that is 
not exactly my meaning. I spoke, not for others, but for 
myself. 

She. I was, I see, too hasty. I hoped you spoke for all, 
or at least from a knowledge of the sentiments of the others. 
Never mind, I am glad to have made one of my uncle's 
friends more welcome — no, I mean more contented. That 
is not the word, either. What is the right word, here? 

He (Ignoring her question.) Before I go, I wish to ask 
you whether — 

She. I believe you cannot think of the word, either. 
Now, be frank. How would you express the idea? 



340 SELECTED READINGS 

He. I wish to ask you whether I have been misled by 
your kindness; whether I am wrong in believing — 

She. Excuse me; I do so dislike to give advice. Can't 
you ask some older woman ? I know so little of the world ! 

He. You do not let me finish. 

She. I am not fond of confidences. One so soon regrets 
them, and then — alas for the poor confidante ! Please let us 
not be serious. I have so much on my mind — questions of 
housekeeping, of servants, so many petty details. 

He. It is hopeless, I see. 

She. Entirely so, believe me. You are exceedingly kind 
to offer me your sympathy, but nothing can be done. It is 
hopeless, indeed. All butlers seem to have the same faults; 
and what they lack, the cooks possess. We thought we had 
a treasure this last month; and this morning she came to 
complain that our dance music kept her from sleeping ! 

He. You are trifling with me. 

She. No — it is a fact. That woman actually had the 
effrontery to complain — 

He. For the last time — will you hear me ? 

She. Certainly. (Stiffly.) I did not know you had an 
oration to deliver. I am all attention. Proceed, sir. 

He. You are offended. 

She. Oh, not at all! 

He. Then please do not be so — cold. 

She. What am I to do ? When I am silent you say I am 
cold; when I talk, I am trifling. If you will graciously 
indicate exactly what demeanor you prefer, I will do my 
best to enact the part. 

He. I don't know what to say or how to act. (Pathetic- 
ally.) I believe you know just what I mean to tell you, and 
somehow you stop me whenever — 

She. Don't let us go back to that point again. I had 
almost forgotten that I was to guess. Let me see, it was n't 
literature, and it was n't Miss Black ; it must be — 

He. It was — 

She. (Hastily.) Don't tell me, I know I could guess if 
you gave me the time — (Suddenly interrupting.) Hush! 
there comes Harry Douglas. Another time will do. 

He. (In despair.) I must go, then. I will write you. 
Good-bye. 

She. (Rising and ignoring his hand.) Good-bye. 
Exit He 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 341 

Enter Harry Douglas 

Harry. Ah, my dear! What was the trouble with my 
lord, the recently departed? He looked like the ghost of 
Hamlet's father as he left. 

She. Oh, Harry ! He was trying to propose to me, poor 
boy, and I couldn't tell him of our engagement until it 
is out, you know, and I did n't know how to refuse him. 

Harry. And how did you ? 

She. Oh, he didn't say anything to me. 

Harry. Why not? 

She. He could n't seem to find a chance. 

Harry. I had no difficulty. 

She. That's different. 

Tudor Jenks. 



AT THE DOOR* 

A Hostess and Guest are Parting at the Door-step 

HOSTESS. Well, dear, if you must go, good-bye. 
Guest. Yes, dear, I really must ; I wish I might stay 
longer, but the baby must have some new shoes and I 
promised to match a sample for one of the maids. — Eeally, 
I 'm so driven all day that I scarcely know which way to 
turn. — You know what it is to keep house; I never know 
how I am going to finish the thousand and one things I 
have to do. 

Hostess. That is the same way with me, I can assure 
you. I'm so driven all day, that I never call a single 
moment my own. Yet I economize every instant of the 
day, rushing from one thing to another, till sometimes I 
wonder if I am in possession of my senses. 

Guest. There, don't say a word, — I know just how it 
is. There are some women who fritter away their time and 
then they wonder why they don't accomplish more; but 
you and I, dear — Now, really, I must n't gossip any longer; 
once more, good-bye. 

Hostess. Good-bye, come and see me soon again, dear. 
I've enjoyed your call so much. 

Guest. I think I am very forgiving, for you ? ve owed me 
a call — 

Hostess. One moment, Lizzie, dear. You surely are 

* By permission of the author and The Century Co. 



342 SELECTED READINGS 

mistaken — I 'm always so punctilious about calling. Let 
me see, I was at your home just after your cook left, and 
by the way, you never told me why she left. Why was it? 
She always seemed so neat and respectful and was so tidy 
about the kitchen. 

Guest. You mean Olga. Yes, there were many nice 
things about Olga, but she was so terribly wasteful that I 
couldn't put up with her any longer. Of Course, after 
having a cook like Julia Mackenzie, I found Olga a terrible 
trial to my patience. I did my best to keep her on account 
of her dear old mother, but I could not stand her another 
minute. It was simply too much for human patience to 
bear. But, I must not keep you with my foolish complaints. 
Once more, good-bye. 

Hostess. Oh, did you know that I had a new cook, too ? 

Guest. Why, no, you never told me. Then I suppose 
Marie is gone. Now that is what I call a real trial. When 
did she go? 

Hostess. A week ago, and you would never believe the 
state in which she left the kitchen; the pans looked as if 
they had never come within speaking distance of the scour- 
ing sand — I just dread the hour in which a cook leaves; 
it 's always worse than when they come. Still, I must not 
unload my troubles on you, especially when you have some 
of your own. I do think that we women are the drudges of 
the world. If men had one-half the burdens we women 
have to bear without complaining, they — well, I don't 
know what they wouldn't do. We poor women have to 
suffer in silence, no matter what comes. I do hope that if 
we have to live over again, I won't have to be a woman — 
so there. What a beautiful day it is after the rain ! 

Guest. Beautiful. Is n't it strange how invariably it 
rains on wash-day? It seems to me that we never have a 
sunny Monday, and it's sure to be more or less cloudy on 
Tuesday and Wednesday. 

Hostess. Well, I 'm sure it always pours on Sunday 
when one has on their best clothes. And the children in- 
sist that it's always drizzling on Saturday, so it's to be 
hoped that Thursdays and Fridays are sometimes clear. 

Guest. Here I 'm keeping you on the door-step, as if we 
were waiting to see a circus go by — I have n't seen a circus 
in years; have you? 

Hostess. Not I, I have no need of circuses. The children 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 343 

give me all the circus I need every day. How you manage 
with your five, I 'm sure I can't see. What do you ever do 
with them all? And when do you find time for that lovely 
embroidery of yours? 

Guest. Do you really like it ? I 'm so glad, for I feel 
that if I could not embroider, I should die. Badly as I 
do it, it 's my greatest comfort — after John and the chil- 
dren, of course. Why don't you learn? Miss Mascovite is 
such a lovely teacher, and her prices are absurdly low — 
only six dollars a lesson. Why, I have learned six new 
stitches for only eighteen dollars — 'twas just like pick- 
ing them up in the street. 

Hostess. I should like to, of course ; but Will is so fussy 
over small expenses. He 'd think that eighteen dollars spent 
for embroidery lessons was a sinful waste, and yet he'll 
spend any amount for cigars in a single evening — I 've 
known him to do it without winking. 

Guest. I know just what you mean. John is the same 
way. He thinks money spent on a new hat quite thrown 
away, and yet he will lay out as much as fifteen dollars on 
a new suit and never give it a thought. Aren't men the 
most unreasonable creatures in nature — except women 
perhaps. But at least we know our faults, and confess them 
to one another, and that is more than men do, goodness 
knows. I must hurry off. What time is it? My watch 
has stopped. 

Hostess. I don't know — my watch is n't going — has n't 
run for several weeks. I 'm afraid that there is some- 
thing wrong with it — never did go any way. It's early 
yet! Come in and have some tea before you go. Your 
errands can wait just as well as not. 

Guest. You really won't think me silly, and won't mind ? 
Your tea is so good; and besides, my errands can wait just 
as well as not. I hate to feel hurried and driven. And 
you're quite sure you won't mind? 

Hostess. Only if you don't come ; come, dear, and have a 
good talk. 

Tudor Jenks. 



344 SELECTED READINGS 

AT THE FERRY 

Scene : A New York Ferry Landing 

[Persons: Papa Blossom, Mamma Blossom, and Master Freddie 
Blossom.] 

FRED. Where are all the people going to, mamma ? 
Mrs. B. To the country. 

Feed. What country? Africa? 

Mrs. B. No, not a foreign country, this country. 

Fred. They are in this country now, ain't they? 

Mrs. B. Yes, of course they are. 

Fred. Well, how can they go to this country when they 're 
already in it ? 

Mrs. B. We are in the city now, Freddie, and the people 
want to go into the country. 

Fred. Ain't this city a country? 

Mrs. B. Of course it is a country, but the people want to 
go into the country. Don't you understand? 

Fred. What country? 

Mrs. B. Oh, for pity's sake, hold your tongue! 

Mr. B. That 's no way to talk to a child ; you must not 
forget you were a child once. 

Mrs. B. Well, suppose you take him and be his encyclo- 
pedia for -the balance of the day. 

Mr. B. Willingly. Come, Freddie, give me your hand, 
your papa will answer all your questions. 

Fred. [A moment later. ,] What 's that man running for, 
papa? 

Mr. B. He wants to catch the ferry. 

Fred. If he catches it now, won't he ever catch it again ? 

Mr. B. Why, I presume he will. 

Fred. I would rather catch the measles, wouldn't you, 
papa? 

Mr. B. Why? 

Fred. 'Cause you only catch them once. 

Mr. B. Ha, ha, ha ! But the ferry is not a disease, it 's a 
boat. 

Fred. Why don't they call it a boat then ? 

Mr. B. They do; they call it a ferry boat. 

Fred. What does the man want to catch the boat for ? 

Mr. B. He wants to take it to Jersey. 

Fred. What does he want to take it to Jersey for? 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 345 

Mr. B. Because he wants to go to Jersey. 

Fred. Will he take it on his shoulders? 

Mr. B. Take what on his shoulders ? 

Fred. The boat. 

Mr. B. You little — [remembering himself.'] Freddie, 
when I say that he will take the boat to Jersey I mean the 
boat will take him to Jersey. 

Fred. But why does the man run so fast to take the boat 
to Jersey? 

Mr. B. He is afraid he will miss the boat. 

Fred. And if he misses it, could n't he ever go to Jersey ? 

Mr. B. Of course he could ; he could take the next boat. 

Fred. Would he have to wait seven or eleven hours for 
another boat? 

Mr. B. No, he would have to wait only a few minutes. 

Fred. Then what does he run so fast for? 

Mr. B. Lord only knows. I suppose it is because he is 
an American. 

Fred. What has that got to do with it, papa ? 

Mr. B. Hanged if I know ! See, Freddie, that man with 
the basket. I presume he is going on a picnic. 

Fred. What 's a picnic, papa, a boat ? 

Mr. B. No; a picnic, my boy, is a — well, people take 
their lunches in baskets and eat them under the trees in the 
country. 

Fred. The country mamma would n't tell me about ? 

Mr. B. Yes, the same country. 

Fred. What do they eat the baskets for? 

Mr. B. They don't eat the baskets, — they eat the lunches 
in the baskets. 

Fred. Haven't these people any homes to eat their 
lunches in? 

Mr. B. Of course they have. 

Fred. Why do they want to eat them under trees for, then ? 

Mr. B. Just for the fun of the thing. 

Fred. What fun is there eating under trees? 

Mr. B. Hanged if I know. 

Fred. Did you ever eat your lunch under trees ? 

Mr. B. Yes. 

Fred. Did you have any fun ? 

Mr. B. I don't know. 

Fred. Well, you don't know much, anyhow, do you, 
papa ? Anonymous. 



346 SELECTED READINGS 



COME HERE 

[It is an excellent practice to take a simple sentence, — for instance, 
"Shut the door," and see what a variety in tone and inflection may be 
given it. Several hundred ways may be easily devised. Illustrative 
of this is an excerpt from a scene translated from the German and 
given by the late Madame Janauschek.] 

Scene: an Office. [Call-boy is arranging letters and papers 
on table. Enter the manager. ~\ 

MAN. Good morning, Bob. Tell the bill-poster when he 
comes to display the new posters in the green-room 
for me to look at, and let me know when they are ready. 
Boy. A lady is waiting to see yon, sir. 
Man. Ask her to come in. [Exit boy.] 

Enter an Actress 

Man. [Aside.'] Good appearance. Madam, your busi- 
ness? 

Act. I ? m informed the place of leading lady in your 
company is vacant, and trusting that my talents may en- 
able me to fill it worthily, I beg to offer you my services. 

Man. Have you a mind to stand a special trial? The 
test I propose is very difficult. Mind, I do not want to see 
yourself: simply the character that is to be represented. 

Act. Will you leave the choice to me? 

Man. Oh, no! 

Act. Then it may indeed become a harder task than I 
thought; your selection may not be in my repertoire. 

Man. Oh, yes, it is. I only require two words : " Come 
here." 

Act. Come here? 

Man. Yes, and with the words, the meaning, emphasis, 
and expressions that situation, character, and the surround- 
ings would command. The part is simple and easily 
studied ; do you think you can remember it ? 

Act. Let me see, c-o-m-e h-e-r-e, is that right? 

Man. That's right. 

Act. [Removing her hat and coat.'] Now, I 'm ready. 

Man. First, represent a queen, who deigns to call a 
maid-of-honor. 

Act. Come here ! 

Man. ISTow, she commands a courtier, not in favor, to 
the foot of her throne. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 347 

Act. Come here. 

Man. Next, she calls a hero to reward his deeds in the 
battlefield, and to receive the laurel from her hands. 

Act. Come here. 

Man. Now represent a princess at the deathbed of her 
father, whose throue she will inherit. She is ambitions, and 
yet loves her father. With these complex emotions she calls 
on the physician, who can bring relief. 

Act. Come here ! 

Man. Before a mother stand a daughter and her lover, 
who pray for her consent. The lover is poor; the mother 
battles with her pride. It is a great struggle for her. At 
last she cries — 

Act. Come here! 

Man. A mother calls her little daughter, who has done 
something to vex her. 

Act. Come here! 

Man. Now it is her stepchild. 

Act. Come here. 

Man. A carriage is dashing by ; a child is in the street. 
With a heart filled with terror the mother cries — 

Act. Come here ! 

Man. In tears and sorrow a wife has bid adieu to her 
departing husband, who has gone to defend his country on 
the battlefield. She seeks consolation in her children, and 
calls — 

Act. Come here. 

Man. The husband has returned ; the wife observes him, 
and full of joy calls her children — 

Act. Come here! 

Man. Observing his servant, she calls him also — 

Act. Come here! 

Man. Now show me how in despair a widow who has lost 
all she possessed, through fire, confronts the creditors who 
clamor for their dues, and whose cruelty has killed her hus- 
band. She points to the remains of her dead husband, and 
calls on them to look at their work. 

Act. Come here. 

Man. In a wooded glade a country maiden spies an 
artist, whose eyes rest now on her, then on a sketch-book he 
works upon. She creeps cautiously behind him and sees 
herself. In delight and triumph she calls her neighbor — 

Act. Come here ! 



S48 SELECTED READINGS 

Man. Now show me how a country miss would call a 
dog that has stolen her luncheon; she would like to have it 
back, but fears he might bite her. 

Act. Come here. 

Man. The dog approaches; she is afraid of him; she calls 
to a passerby for help — 

Act. Come here! 

Man. A husband threatens to beat his wife ; feeling out- 
raged she raises a broom on high and exclaims — 

Act. Come here! 

Man. A jealous wife accuses her husband of being in 
love, which he denies. In his pocket she discovers a letter. 
She again upbraids him; he still denies; then opening the 
letter, she, full of hate and rage, calls out — 

Act. Come here ! 

Man. Now represent a maiden who looks with childish 
innocence upon her lover, whom she chid because he stole a 
kiss. Seeing she has pained him, she calls — 

Act. Come here. 

Man. He does not return, and she calls again — 

Act. Come here ! 

Man. He will not return until she offers her cheek to 
him for a kiss. 

Act. Come here. 

Man. Now for the last picture. A man was betrothed 
in childhood to a lovely girl. Eeverses of fortune separated 
their families. After long years they meet. He longs to 
renew the old ties; he offers her his hand, his heart, all 
that he possesses, and now awaits anxiously the words that 
may tell him his love is returned — 

Act. Come here. 



SECRETS OF THE HEART 

Scene : A chalet covered with honeysuckle 
Ninette. 



t 



I HIS way. 

Ninon. No, this way. 

[They enter the chalet.'] 
Ninette. This way, then. 

You are as changing, child, as men. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 



349 



Ninon. But are they? Is it true, I mean? 

Who said it ? 
Ninette. Sister Seraphine. 

She was so pious and so good, 

With such sad eyes beneath her hood, 

And such poor little feet — all bare ! 

Her name was Eugenie LaFere. 

She used to tell us, moonlight nights, 

When I was at the Carmelites. 
Ninon. Ah ! then it must be right. And yet, 

Suppose for once — suppose, Ninette — 
Ninette. But what? 
Ninon. Suppose it were not so ? 

Suppose there were true men, you know ! 
Ninette. And then? 
Ninon. Why, — if that could occur, 

What kind of man should you prefer ? 
Ninette. What looks, you mean? 
Ninon. Looks, voice, and all. 

Ninette. Well, as to that, he must be tall, 

Or say, not tall — of middle size ; 

And next, he must have laughing eyes, 

And a hook nose, with, underneath, 

! such a row of sparkling teeth ! 

Ninon. [Touching her cheek suspiciously.'] Has he a 

scar on this side ? 
Ninette. Hush ! 

Some one is coming. No ; a thrush ; 

1 see it swinging there. 
Ninon. Go on. 
Ninette. Then he must fence (Ah, look ! ? t is gone !), 

And dance like Monseigneur, and sing 
" Love Was a Shepherd " — everything 
That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon. 
Ninon. Shall I ? Then mine has black, black hair, 
I mean, he should have ; then an air 
Half sad, half noble; features thin; 
A little royale on his chin ; 
And such a pale high brow ! And then 
He is a prince of gentlemen ! 
He, too, can ride, and fence, and write 
Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight 
No worse for that — 



350 



SELECTED READINGS 



Ninette. I know your man. 

Ninon. And I know yours. But you '11 not tell. 

Swear it. 
Ninette. I swear upon this fan — 

My grandmother's ! 
Ninon. And I — I swear 

On this old turquoise reliquaire — 

My great-great-grandmother's ! [After a pause.'] 

Ninette ! I feel so sad. 
Ninette. I too. But why ? 

Ninon. Alas, I know not ! 
Ninette. [With a sigh.] Nor do I. 

Austin Dobson. 



TU QUOQUE 

Nellie. 

IF I were you, when ladies at the play, sir, 
Beckon and nod a melodrama through, 
I would not turn abstractedly away, sir, 
If I were you ! 

Frank. If I were you, when persons I affected 

Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, 
I would, at least, pretend I recollected, 
If I were you. 

Nellie. If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, 

Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, 
I would not dance with odious Miss McTavish, 
If I were you ! 

Frank. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer 

Whiff of the best — the mildest " honey dew," 
I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, 
If I were you ! 



Nellie. If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, 

Even to write the " Cynical Review " — 

Frank. No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, 
If I were you ! 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 



351 



Nellie. Really! You would? Why, Frank, you're quite 
delightful — 
Hot as Othello, and as black of hue ; 
Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful, 
If I were you ! 

Frank. " It is the cause." I mean, your chaperon is 

Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu ! 
I shall retire. I 'd spare that poor Adonis, 
If I were you. 

Nellie. Go, if you will. At once ! And by express, sir ! 
Where shall it be ? to China — or Peru ? 
Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir, 
If I were you ! 

Frank. No — I remain. To stay and fight a duel 

Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do — - 
Ah ! you are strong — I would not then be cruel, 
If I were you. 

Nellie. One does not like one's feelings to be doubted — 
Frank. One does not like one's friends to miscon- 

strue — 
Nellie. If I confess that I a wee bit pouted ? 
Frank. I should admit that I was piqued too. 

(Waltz music — Invitation to the Dance.) 

Nellie. Ask me to dance ! I 'd say no more about it, 

If I were you ! [Waltz — Exeunt.'] 

Austin Dobson. 



SCENE FROM " PAOLA AND FRANCESCA " * 

From Act IV 

[A chamber in the palace; late evening of the second day 
after Giovanni's departure. Giovanni discovered, stained 
as from hard riding.'] 

Gio. 

THE Lady Lucrezia — is she in the house ? 
Car. She is, sir. 
Gio. Tell her that I am returned, 

* By permission of the author and his publishers, Messrs. John Lane Company, 
The Bodley Head. 



352 SELECTED READINGS 

And ask some words with her. Well, why do you 

Stand bursting with some news that you must tell ? 

What sudden thing has happened? 
Car. Nothing, sir. 

Gio. Leave me and take my message ! 

[Exeunt Carlo and Attendants.] 
Enter Lucrezia 
Luc. So soon returned, Giovanni? 
Gio. A few hours' 

Fast fighting ended it, Lucrezia. 

What news at home ? 
Luc. Oh, Paola is returned ! 

Gio. Paola returned! What! from the grave? 
Luc. The grave? 

Gio. I left him dead, or going to his death. 
Luc. What do you mean ? 
Gio. I heard from his own mouth 

That he and she did for each other burn. 
Luc. He told you ? 

Gio. No, not me ; but yet I heard. 

Luc. And you on the instant killed him? 
Gio. No, he stole 

Away to die : I thought him dead : ? t were better. 

Now like a thief he creeps back to the house ! 

To her for whom I had begun to long 

So late in life that now I may not cease 

From longing! 
Luc. Her that you must drug to kiss ! 

Will you not smell the potion in her sigh ? 

A few more drops, then what a mad caress! 
Gio. He hath crept back like a thief into the house — 

A thief — a liar ; he feigned the will to die. 

Lucrezia, when old Angela foretold, 

I feared not him ; when he was pointed at, 

I doubted still: even after his own words, 

Then, then had I forgiven him, for he 

Went out as to a grave. But now I am changed — 

I will be wary of this creeping thing. 

O, I have no emotion now, no blood. 

No longer I postpone or fight this doom: 

I see that it must be, and I am grown 

The accomplice and the instrument of Fate, 

A blade ! a knife ! — no more. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 



353 



Luc. He has been here 

Since yestermorn. 

Gio. Yet I '11 be no assassin, 

Or rashly kill : I have not seen them kiss. 
I '11 wait to find them in each other's arms, 
And stab them there enfolded and entwined, 
And so to all men justify my deed. 
Yet how to find them, where to kill is just ? 

Luc. Give out that this is no return, but merely 
, An intermission of the war; that you 

Must ride back to the camp within the hour, 
And for some days be absent : he and she 
"Will seize upon the dark and lucky hour 
To be together ; watch you round the house, 
And suddenly take them in each other's arms. 

Gio. This plan commends itself to my cold heart. 

Luc. Here comes Francesca. Shall I stay, then? 

Gio. Stay! 

Enter Francesca 

Franc. Sir, you have asked for me. I did not know 
You were so soon returned. 

Gio. Soldiers' returns 

Are sudden and oft unexpected. 

Franc. Sir, 

How pale you are ! You are not wounded ? 

Gio. No! 

A scratch perhaps. Give me some wine, Francesca, 
For suddenly I must be gone again. 

Franc. I thought this broil was ended ? 

Gio. No ! not yet. 

Some days I may be absent, and can go 
More lightly since I leave you not alone. 
To Paola I commend you, to my brother. 
Loyal he is to me, loyal and true. 
He has also a gaiety of mind 
Which I have ever lacked : he is besides 
More suited to your years, can sing and play, 
And has the art long hours to entertain. 
To him I leave you, and must go forthwith. 

[He makes to go, then turns."] 
Come here, Francesca, kiss me — yet not so, 
You put your lips up to me like a child. 
23 



354 



SELECTED READINGS 



Franc. 



Gio. 
Franc. 
Gio. 
Franc. 



Gio. 

Franc. 
Gio. 
Franc. 
Gio. 



Franc. 

Luc. 
Franc. 

Luc. 



Franc. 
Luc. 



Franc. 
Luc. 



'T is not so long ago I was a child. 

[Seizing his arm.'] 

sir, is it wise, is it well to go away ? 
What do yon mean? 

I have a terror here. 
Can you not bear to part with me some hours ? 

1 dread to be alone : I fear the night 

And yon great chamber, the resort of spirits. 
I see men hunted on the air by hounds : 
Thin faces of your house, with weary smiles. 
The dead who frown I fear not; but I fear 
The dead who smile ! The very palace rocks, 
Remembering at midnight; and I see 
Women within these walls immured alive 
Come starving to my bed and ask for food. 
Take some one, then, to sleep with you — Lucrezia, 
Or little Nita else : lie not alone. 
[Still detaining him.] Yet go not, sir. 

What is it that you fear ? 
Sir, go not, go not ! 

Child, I cannot stay 
For fancies, and at once I '11 say farewell 
To both of you. I hear my courser fret. 

[Exit Giovanni.] 
[Looking after him and turning slowly.] 
Lucrezia, will you lie with me to-night? 
I will, Francesca, if you '11 have it so. 
Oh, some one I can touch in the thick night ! — 
What sound is that? 

[Going to window.] Your husband galloping 
Away into the dark ; now he is gone. 

[She looks from the window, then turns.] 
I left young Paola pacing up and down ; 

[Looking steadfastly at her.] 
He seemed as faint for company as you. 
Say, shall I call him in as I go out? 
He will help waste the tardy time. 
[Quickly.] No, no! 

Is there some little feud 'twixt you and him ? 
For when you meet words slowly come to you — 
You scarce look in each other's eyes. 

No feud. 
Remember, when Giovanni married you 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 



355 



These two were to each other all in all; 

And so excuse some natural jealousy 

Of you from him. 
Franc. I think he means me well. 

Luc. Then shall I call him in ? 
Franc. , 0, why so eager? 

Where would all those about me drive me? First 

My husband earnestly to Paola 

Commends me; and now you must call him in. 

[Wildly. ~\ Where can I look for pity? Lucrezia 

You have no children? 
Luc. None. 

Franc. Nor ever had? 

Luc. Nor ever had. 
Franc. But yet you are a woman. 

I have no mother : let me be your child 

To-night. I am so utterly alone! 

Be gentle with me; or if not, at least 

Let me go home. This world is difficult. 

Oh, think of me as of a little child 

That looks into your face, and asks your hand. 
[Lucrezia softly touches Francesca's hair.] 

Why do you touch my head ? Why do you weep ? 

I would not pain you. 
Luc Ah, Francesca ! You 

Have touched me where my life is quivering most. 

I have no child : and yet if I had borne one 

I could have wished her hair had been this color. 
Franc. I am too suddenly cast in this whirl! 

Too suddenly! I had but convent thoughts. 

woman, woman, take me to you and hold me ! 

[She throws herself into Lucrezia's arms.'] 
Luc. [Clasping Francesca to her]. At last the long 
ice melts, and oh, relief 
Of rain that rushes from me! Child, my child! 

1 clasp you close, close! Do you fear me still? 
Have you not heard love is more fierce than hate? 
Eoughly I grasp what I have hunted long. 

You cannot know — how should you? — that you 
are 

More, so much more, to me than just a child. 
Franc. I seem to understand a little. 
Luc. Close, 



356 SELECTED READINGS 

I hold you close ! It was not all in vain, 
The holy babble and pillow kissed all o'er ! 

my embodied dream with eyes and hair! 
Visible aspiration with soft hands! 
Tangible vision! Oh, art thou alive, 
Francesca, dost thou move and breathe? Speak, 

speak ! 
Say human words out, lest thou vanish quite ! 
Your very flesh is of my sighs composed, 
Your blood is crimson with my passioning! 
And now I have conceived and have brought forth ; 
And I exult in front of the great sun: 
And I laugh out with riches on my lap ! 
And you will deem me mad ! but do not, Sweet : 

1 am not mad, only I am most happy. 

I '11 dry my tears — but oh, if thou should ? st die ? 
[Asi^e.] And ah, my God ! 
Franc. Why did you start? 

Luc. [4si^e.] To stay him! 

[To Francesca, talcing her hands.'] But I should 

be the shadow of a mother 
If here I ceased. Francesca, I well know 
That 'twixt bright Paola and dark Giovanni 
You stand. You hinted at some peril there. 
I ask to know no more ; but take these words : 
Be not in company with Paola 
To-night. [Aside.] Giovanni must be found. . My 

child, 
I have some business on the moment, but 
Within the hour I will return — [Aside.] How 

find him? 
And sleep with you. [Aside.] I '11 search all secret 

places. 
Kiss me. Eemember, then ! [Aside.] ? T is not too 

late ! 
What meshes have I woven for what I love? 

Stephen Phillips. 
Abridged by Anna Morgan. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 357 

THE QUARREL OF JBRUTUS AND CASSIUS 

From "Julius C^sar," Act IV, Scene 3 

Scene : Brutus' 's Tent 
Cas. 

THAT you have wrong'd me doth appear in this : 
You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians; 
Wherein my letters, praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man, were slighted off. 

Bru. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case. 

Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet 

That every nice offence should bear his comment. 

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 

Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm. 

Cas. I an itching palm! 

You know that you are Brutus that speak this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 

Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, 

And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 

Cas. Chastisement ! 

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember: 

Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? 
What villain touch'd his body, that did stab, 
And not for justice ? What, shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world 
But for supporting robbers, shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 
And sell the mighty space of our large honors 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Cas. Brutus, bay not me; 

I '11 not endure it : you forget yourself, 
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Bru. Go to ; you are not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; 

Have mind upon your health, temper me no farther. 



358 SELECTED READINGS 

Bru. Away, slight man! 

Cas. Is 't possible ? 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 

Must I give way and room to your rash choler? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? 

Cas. ye gods, ye gods! must I endure all this? 

Bru. All this! ay, more; fret till your proud heart 

break ; 
Go show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? 
Must I observe you ? must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humor? By the gods, 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, 
I '11 use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

Cas. Is it come to this? 

Bru. You say you are a better soldier: 

Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well: for mine own part, 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, 

Brutus ; 
I said, an elder soldier, not a better: 
Did I say "better"? 

Bru. If you did, I care not. 

Cas. When Caesar liv'd, he durst not thus have moved 

me. 

Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. 

Cas. I durst not! 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What, durst not tempt him! 

Bru. For your life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love; 

I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, 
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me : 
For I can raise no money by vile means : 
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 359 

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 

From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash 

By any indirection : I did send 

To you for gold to pay my legions, 

Which you denied me: Was that done like Cassius? 

Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? 

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 

To lock such rascal counters from his friends, . 

Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts; 

Dash him to pieces! 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not: he was but a fool that brought 

My answer back. Brutus hath riv'd my heart: 
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Bru. . A flatterer's would not, though they do appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, 

Bevenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 
For Cassius is aweary of the world; 
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; 
Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observed, 
Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote, 
To cast into my teeth. 0, I could weep 
My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger, 
And here my naked breast ; within, a heart 
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold: 
If that thou be 'st a Eoman, take it forth ; 
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: 
Strike, as thou didst at Caesar; for, I know, 
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him 

better 
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. 

Bru. Sheathe your dagger : 

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; 
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb 
That carries anger as the flint bears fire; 



360 SELECTED READINGS 

Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 

And straight is cold again. 
Cas. Hath Cassius lived 

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 

When grief, and blood ill-temper' d, vexeth him? 
Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. 

Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. 

Bru. And my heart too. 

Cas. Brutus ! 

Bru. What 's the matter ? 

Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with me, 

When that rash humor which my mother gave me 

Makes me forgetful? 
Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and, from henceforth, 

When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 

He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. 

Shakespeare. 
Abridged by Anna Morgan. 



SCENE FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT" 

Act IV, Scene 1 

[Orlando has failed to keep an engagement with Rosalind. She is 
angry and addresses him in tones of reproach and threat.] 

ROS. Why, how now, Orlando ! where have you been all 
this while ? You a lover ! An you serve me such an- 
other trick, never come in my sight more. 

Orl. My fair Eosalind, I come within an hour of my 
promise. 

Eos. Break an hour's promise in love! He that will 
divide a minute into a thousand parts and break but a part 
of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, 
it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the 
shoulder, but I '11 warrant him heart-whole. 

Orl. Pardon me, dear Eosalind. 

Eos. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight : 
I had as lief be wooed of a snail. 

Orl. Of a snail? 

Eos. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he 
carries his house on his head. Come, woo me, woo me, for 
now I am in a holiday humor and like enough to consent. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 361 

What would you say to me now, an I were your very very 
Eosalind ? 

Orl. I would kiss before I spoke. 

Eos. Nay, you were better speak first. Very good 
orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers 
lacking — matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss. 

Orl. How if the kiss be denied? 

Eos. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins 
new matter. Am not I your Eosalind ? 

Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be 
talking of her. 

Eos. Well in her person I say I will not have you. 

Orl. Then in mine own person I die. 

Eos. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is 
alT&ogt six thousand years old, and in all this time there 
was iiot any man died in his own person. Men have died 
from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for 
love. 

Orl. I would not have my right Eosalind of this mind, 
for, I protest, her frown might kill me. 

Eos. Why then, can one desire too much of a good 
thing? Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us. 
Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister? 

Orl. Pray thee, marry us. 

Cel. I cannot say the words. 

Eos. You must begin, " Will you, Orlando — " 

Cel. Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Eosa- 
lind? 

Orl. I will. 

Eos. Ay, but when ? 

Orl. Why now ; as fast as she can marry us. 

Eos. Then you must say " I take thee, Eosalind, for wife." 

Orl. I take thee, Eosalind, for wife. 

Eos. Now tell me how long you would have her after 
you have possessed her. 

Orl. For ever and a day. 

Eos. Say " a day," without the " ever." No, no, Orlando ; 
men are April when they woo, December when they wed: 
maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes 
when they are wives. 

Orl. But will my Eosalind do so? 

Eos. By my life, she will do as I do. 

Orl. For these two hours, Eosalind, I will leave thee. 



362 SELECTED READINGS 

Eos. Alas ! dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours. 

Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner : by two o'clock I 
will be with thee again. 

Eos. Ay, go your ways, go your ways ; I knew what you 
would prove : my friends told me as much, and I thought no 
less: that nattering tongue of yours won me. Two o'clock 
is your hour? 

Orl. Ay, sweet Eosalind. [Exit.] 

Eos. coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst 
know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot 
be sounded: my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the 
bay of Portugal. I '11 tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of 
the sight of Orlando : I '11 go find a shadow and sigh till he 
come. 

Cel. And I '11 to sleep. [Exeunt.] 

Shakespeare. 
Abridged by Anna Morgan. 



MRS. PAGE AND MRS. FORD 

Scene from "The Merry Wives op Windsor," 

Act II, Scene 1 

Before Page's Bouse. Enter Mistress Page, with a letter. 

MES. PAGE. What ! have I 'scaped love-letters in the 
holiday time of my beauty, and am I now a subject 
for them? Let me see. [Reads.'] 

" Ask me no reason why I love you ; for though Love use 
Eeason for his precisian, he admits him not for his coun- 
sellor. You are not young, no more am I; go to, then, 
there's sympathy: you are merry, so am I; ha, ha! then 
there 's more sympathy ; you love sack, and so do I ; would 
you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress 
Page, — at the least, if the love of soldier can suffice, — 
that I love thee. I will not say, pity me; 'tis not a soldier- 
like phrase : but I say, love me. By me, 

Thine own true knight, 

By day or night, 

Or any kind of light, 

With all his might 

For thee to fight, John Falstaff." 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 363 

What a Herod of Jewry is this! Oh, wicked, wicked 
world! One that is well nigh worn to pieces with age, to 
show himself a young gallant! . . . How shall I be re- 
venged on him ? for revenged I will be. 

Enter Mistress Ford 

Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page ! trust me, I was going to your 
house. 

Mrs. Ford. Oh, Mistress Page, give me some counsel! 

Mrs. Page. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You 
look very ill. 

Mrs. Ford. Oh, Mistress Page, give me some counsel ! 

Mrs. Page. What's the matter, woman? 

Mrs. Ford. Oh, woman, if it were not for one trifling 
respect, I could come to such honor ! 

Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman! take the honor. 
What is it ? dispense with trifles ; what is it ? 

Mrs. Ford. I could be knighted. 

Mrs. Page. What ? thou liest ! — Sir Alice Ford ! 

Mrs. Ford. We burn daylight! — here, read, read; per- 
ceive how I might be knighted. . . . How shall I be re- 
venged on him? . . . Did you ever hear the like? 

Mrs. Page. Letter for letter, but that the name of Page 
and Ford differs! To thy great comfort in this mystery 
of ill opinions, here's the twin brother of thy letter. 
[Laughs. ] I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, 
writ with blank space for different names. 

Mrs. Ford. Why, this is the very same; the very hand, 
the very words. What doth he think of us? 

Mrs. Page. Nay, I know not ; it makes me almost ready 
to wrangle with mine own honesty. I '11 entertain myself 
like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless 
he know some strain in me, that I know not myself, he 
would never have boarded me in this fury. Let's be re- 
venged on him: let's appoint him a meeting; give him a 
show of comfort in his suit and lead him on with fine- 
baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host 
of the Garter. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I will consent to act any villainy against 
him, that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. Oh, 
that my husband saw this letter ! it would give eternal food 
to his jealousy. 



364 SELECTED READINGS 

Mrs. Page. Why, look where he comes; and my good 
man too. He's as far from jealousy as I am from giving 
him cause. 

Mrs. Ford. You are the happier woman. 

Mrs. Page. Let's consult together against this greasy 
knight. [Exeunt.] 

Shakespeare. 
Abridged by Anna Morgan, 



SCENE FROM "TWO GENTLEMEN OF 
VERONA " 

Act I, Scene 2 

Verona. The Garden of Julia's House 

Enter Julia and Lucetta 



b 



Jul. 

UT say, Lucetta, now we are alone, 

Wouldst thou, then, counsel me to fall in love ? 
Luc. Ay, madam; so you stumble not unheedfully. 
Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen 

That every day with parle encounter me, 

In thy opinion which is worthiest love? 
Luc. Please you repeat their names, I'll show my mind 

According to my shallow simple skill. 
Jul. What think 'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour ? 
Luc. As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine; 

But, were I you, he never should be mine. 
Jul. What think 'st thou of the rich Mercatio ? 
Luc. Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so. 
Jul. What think 'st thou of the gentle Proteus? 
Luc. Lord, Lord ! to see what folly reigns in us ! 
Jul. How now! what means this passion at his name? 
Luc. Pardon, dear Madam: 'tis a passing shame 

That I, unworthy body as I am, 

Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. 
Jul. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest? 
Luc. Then thus, — of many good I think him best. 
Jul. Your reason? 
Luc. I have no other but a woman's reason; 

I think him so, because I think him so. 
Jul. And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him? 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 365 

Luc. Ay, if you thought your love not cast away. 

Jul. Why, he, of all the rest, hath never mov'd me. 

Luc. Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves ye. 

Jul. His little speaking shows his love but small. 

Luc. Fire that's closest kept burns most of all. 

Jul. They do not love that do not show their love. 

Luc, Oh, they love least that let men know their love. 

Jul. I would I .knew his mind. 

Luc. Peruse this paper, madam. (Gives a letter.) 

Jul. [Reads.] "To Julia." — Say, from whom ? 

Luc. That the contents will show. 

Jul. Say, say, who gave it thee? 

Luc. Sir Valentine's page ; and sent, I think, from Proteus. 
He would have given it you ; but I, being in the way, 
Did in your name receive it : pardon the fault, I pray. 

Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker! 

Dare you presume to harbor wanton lines? 
To whisper and conspire against my youth? 
Now, trust me, 't is an office of great worth, 
And you an officer fit for the place. 
There, take the paper: see it be return'd; 
Or else return no more into my sight. 

Luc. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate. 

Jul. Will you be gone ? 

Luc. That you may ruminate. [Exit.] 

Jul. And yet I would I had o'erlook'd the letter : 
It were a shame to call her back again, 
And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. 
What fool is she, that knows I am a maid, 
; And would not force the letter to my view ! 
Since maids, in modesty, say " No " to that 
Which they would have the profferer construe, " Ay." 
Pie,, fie, how wayward is this foolish love, 
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse, 
And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod ! 
rllow churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, 
When willingly I would have had her here ! 
How angerly I taught my brow to frown, 
When inward joy enforc'd my heart to smile! 
My penance is to call Lucetta back, 
And ask remission for my folly past. — 
What, ho! Lucetta! 



366 SELECTED READINGS 



Re-enter Lucetta 

Luc. What would your ladyship ? 

Jul. Is't near dinner-time? 
Luc. I would it were ; 

That you might kill your stomach on your meat, 

And not upon your maid. 
Jul. What is 't that you took up so gingerly ? 
Luc. Nothing. 

Jul. Why didst thou stoop, then? 
Luc. To take a paper up that I let fall. 
Jul. And is that paper nothing? 
Luc. Nothing concerning me. 
Jul. Then let it lie for those that it concerns. 
Luc. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns, 

Unless it have a false interpreter. 
Jul. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme. 
Luc. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune. 

Give me a note: your ladyship can set. 
Jul. As little by such toys as may be possible. 

Best sing it to the tune of " Light o ? love." 
Luc. It is too heavy for so light a tune. 
Jul. Heavy ! belike it hath some burden, then ? 
Luc. Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing it. 
Jul. And why not you? 

Luc. I cannot reach so high. 

Jul. Let's see your song. [Talcing the letter.] 

How now, minion! 
Luc. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out: 

And yet methinks I do not like this tune. 
Jul. You do not? 

Luc. No, madam ; it is too sharp. 

Jul. You, minion, are too saucy. 
Luc. Nay, now you are too Hat, 

And mar the concord with too harsh a descant : 

There wanteth but a mean to fill your song. 
Jul. The mean is drown' d with your unruly base. 
Luc. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus. 
Jul. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me. 

Here is a coil with protestation ! — [Tears the letter.'] 

Go get you gone, and let the papers lie : 

You would be fingering them, to anger me. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 367 

Luc. She makes it strange; but she would be best pleas'd 
To be so anger'd with another letter. [Exit.] 

Jul. Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same ! 
Oh, hateful hands, to tear such loving words ! 
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey, 
And kill the bees that yield it with your stings ! 
I '11 kiss each several paper for amends. 
Look, here is writ — " Kind Julia : " — unkind Julia ! 
As in revenge of thy ingratitude, 
I throw thy name against the bruising stones, 
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. 
And here is writ — " Love-wounded Proteus : " 
Poor wounded name ! — my bosom, as a bed, 
Shall lodge thee, till thy wound be throughly heal'd : 
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. 
But twice or thrice was " Proteus " written down : — 
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away, 
Till I have found each letter in the letter, 
Except mine own name : that some whirlwind bear 
Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock, 
And throw it thence into the raging sea ! — 
Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ, — 
"Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, 
To the sweet Julia : " — that I ? 11 tear away; 
And yet I will not, sith so prettily 
He couples it to his complaining names. 
Thus will I fold them one upon another: 
Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. 

Re-enter Lucetta 
Luc. Madam, 

Dinner is ready, and your father stays. 
Jul. Well, let us go. 

Luc. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here? 
Jul. If you respect them, best to take them up. 
Luc. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down : 

Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold. 
Jul. I see you have a month's mind to them. 
Luc. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see; 

I see things too, although you judge I wink. 
Jul. Come, come ; will 't please you go ? [Exeunt'] 

Shakespeare. 



368 SELECTED READINGS 



M 



DIALOGUE FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT" 

From Act I, Scene 5 
ALVOLIO. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will 



speak with you. I told him you were sick ; he takes 
on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak 
with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a 
foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with 
you. What is to be said to him, lady ? he 's fortified against 
any denial. 

Olivia. Tell him he shall not speak with me. 

Malvolio. Has been told so ; and he says, he '11 stand at 
your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a 
bench, but he '11 speak with you. 

Olivia. What kind o' man is he? 

Malvolio. Why, of mankind. 

Olivia. What manner of man? 

Malviolo. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, 
will you or no. 

Olivia. Of what personage and years is he? 

Malvolio. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young 
enough for a boy ; as a squash is before 't is a peascod, or a 
codling when 't is almost an apple : 't is with him in stand- 
ing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favored 
and he speaks very shrewishly ; one would think his mother's 
milk were scarce out of him. 

Olivia. Let him approach : call in my gentlewoman. 

Malvolio. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [Exit.'] 

Enter Maria 

Olivia. Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face. 
We '11 once more hear Orsino's embassy. 

Enter Viola 

Viola. The honorable lady of the house, which is she ? 

Olivia. Speak to me ; I shall answer for her. Your will ? 

Viola. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty, 
— I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for 
I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech, 
for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken 
great pains to con it. 

Olivia. Whence came you, sir? 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 369 

Viola. I can say little more than I have studied, and 
that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me 
modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I 
may proceed in my speech. 
, Olivia. Are yc -i a comedian ? 

Viola. No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very 
fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the 
lady of the house? 

Olivia. If I do not usurp myself, I am. 

Viola. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp your- 
self; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. 
But this is from my commission; I will on with my speech 
in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message. 

Olivia. Come to what is important in't. I forgive you 
the praise. 

Viola. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis 
poetical. 

Olivia. It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you, 
keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and 
allowed your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear 
you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be 
brief ; 't is not that time of moon with me to make one in 
so skipping a dialogue. 

Maria. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way. 

Viola. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little 
longer. I am a messenger. 

Olivia. Speak your office. 

Viola. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture 
of war, no taxation of homage : I hold the olive in my hand ; 
my words are as full of peace as matter. 

Olivia. Yet you began rudely. What are you? what 
would you? 

Viola. What I am, and what I would, are ... to your 
ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation. 

Olivia. Give us the place alone; we will hear this 
divinity. [Exit Maria.] Now, sir, what is your text? 

Viola. Most sweet lady, — 

Olivia. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said 
of it. Where lies your text? 

Viola. In Orsino's bosom. 

Olivia. In his bosom ! In what chapter of his bosom ? 

Viola. To answer by the method, in the first of his 
heart. 

24 



370 SELECTED READINGS 

Olivia. 0, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no 
more to say? 

Viola. Good madam, let me see your face. 

Olivia. Have you any commission from my lord to 
negotiate with my face ? You are now out of your text ; but 
we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. Look 
you, sir, such a one I was this present ; is 't not well done ? 

[Unveiling.'] 

Viola. Excellently done, if God did all. 

Olivia. 'T is in grain, sir ; 't will endure wind and 
weather. 

Viola. 'T is beauty truly blent, whose red and white 
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: 
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive, 
If you will lead these graces to the grave 
And leave the world no copy. 

Olivia. 0, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give 
out divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried, 
and every particle and utensil labelled to my will; as, item, 
two lips, indifferent red; item, two gray eyes, with lids to 
them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you 
sent hither to praise me? 

Viola. I see you what you are, — you are too proud; 
But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 
My lord and master loves you : 0, such love 
Could be but recompensed, though you were crown'd 
The nonpareil of beauty ! 

Olivia. How does he love me? 

Viola. With adorations, fertile tears, 
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. 

Olivia. Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love 
him: 
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, 
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; 
. . . but yet I cannot love him ; 
He might have took his answer long ago. 

Viola. If I did love you in my master's flame, 
With such a suffering, such a deadly life, 
In your denial I would find no sense; 
I would not understand it. 

Olivia. Why, what would you? 

Viola. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, 
And call upon my soul within the house; 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 371 

Write loyal cantons of contemned love, 
And sing them loud even in the dead of night; 
Halloo your name to the reverberate hills, 
And make the babbling gossip of the air 
Cry out " Olivia ! " 0, you should not rest 
Between the elements of air and earth, 
But you should pity me ! 

Shakespeare. 

SCENE FROM " CORIOLANUS " 

Act I, Scene 3 

A Room in Marcius' House 

[Enter Volumnia and Viegilia : they sit down on two low 
stools, and sew.~\ 

VOL. I pray you, daughter, sing; or express yourself in 
a more comfortable sort : if my son were my husband, 
I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honor 
than in the embracements where he should show most love. 
When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my 
womb; when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his 
way; when, for a day of kings' entreaties, a mother should 
not sell him an hour from her beholding ; I, — considering 
how honor would become such a person ; that it was no better 
than picturelike to hang by the wall, if renown made it not 
stir, — was pleased to let him seek danger where he was 
like to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him ; from whence 
he returned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, 
— I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man- 
child, than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man. 

Vir. But had he died in the business, madam, — how 
then? 

Vol. Then his good report should have been my son; I 
therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely : 
had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less 
dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had 
eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously 
surfeit out of action. 

Enter a Gentlewoman 

Gent. Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you. 
Vir. Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself. 



372 SELECTED READINGS 

Vol. Indeed you shall not. 
Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum, 
See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair, 
As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him : 
Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus, — 
" Come on, you cowards ! you were got in fear, 
Though you were born in Home : " his bloody brow 
With his maiPd hand then wiping, forth he goes; 
Like to a harvest-man, that 's task'd to mow 
Or all, or lose his hire. 

Vir. His bloody brow! Jupiter, no blood! 

Vol. Away, you fool ! it more becomes a man 
Than gilt his trophy : The breasts of Hecuba, 
When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier 
Than Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood 
At Grecian sword's contemning. Tell Valeria 
We are fit to bid her welcome. [Exit Gent.] 

Vm. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius! 

Vol. He '11 beat Aufidius' head below his knee, 
And tread upon his neck. 

Ee-enter Gentlewoman, with Valeria and her Usher 

Val. My ladies both, good day to you. 

Vol. Sweet madam. 

Vir. I am glad to see your ladyship. 

Val. How do you both? you are manifest housekeepers. 
What are you sewing here ? A fine spot in good faith. — 
How does your little son? 

Vir. I thank your ladyship; well, good madam. 

Vol. He had rather see the swords, and hear a drum, than 
look upon his schoolmaster. 

Val. 0' my word, the father's son: I'll swear, 'tis a 
very pretty boy. 0' my troth, I looked upon him o' Wednes- 
day half an hour together: he has such a confirmed coun- 
tenance. I saw him run after a gilded butterfly; and when 
he caught it, he let it go again; and after it again; and 
over and over he comes, and up again ; catched it again : or 
whether his fall enraged him, or how 't was, he did so set his 
teeth, and tear it. Oh, I warrant, how he mammocked it! 

Vol. One on 's father's moods. 

Val. Indeed, la, 't is a noble child. Come, lay aside your 
stitchery; I must have you play the idle huswife with me 
this afternoon. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 373 

Vir. No, good madam; I will not out of doors. 

Val. Not out of doors! 

Vol. She shall, she shall. 

Vir. Indeed, no, by your patience; I'll not over the 
threshold till my lord return from the wars. 

Val. Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably : come, 
you must go visit the good lady that lies in. 

Vir. I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with 
my prayers; but I cannot go thither. 

Vol. Why, I pray you ? 

Vir. 'T is not to save labor, nor that I want love. 

Val. You would be another Penelope : yet, they say, all 
the yarn she spun in Ulysses' absence did but fill Ithaca 
full of moths. Come; I would your cambric were sensible 
as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for pity. 
Come, you shall go with us. 

Vir. No, good madam, pardon me: indeed, I will not 
forth. . 

Val. In truth, la, go with me ; and I '11 tell you excellent 
news of your husband. 

Vir. Oh, good madam, there can be none yet. 

Val. Verily, I do not jest with you; there came news 
from him last night. 

Vir. Indeed, madam? 

Val. In earnest, it's true; I heard a senator speak it. 
Thus it is: — The Volsces have an army forth; against 
whom Cominius the general is gone, with one part of our 
Roman power: your lord and Titus Lartius are set down 
before their city Corioli ; they nothing doubt prevailing, and 
to make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honor ; and so, 
I pray, go with us. 

Vir. Give me excuse, good madam; I will obey you in 
everything hereafter. 

Vol. Let her alone, lady: as she is now she will but 
disease our better mirth. 

Val. In troth, I think she would. Fare you well, then. 
Come, good sweet lady, Pr'ythee, Virgilia, turn thy sol- 
emness out o' door, and go along with us. 

Vir. No, at a word, madam ; indeed, I must not. I wish 
you much mirth. 

Val. Well, then, farewell. [Exeunt.'] 

Shakespeare. 



H 



374 SELECTED READINGS 

SCENE FROM "KING JOHN" 

Act IV, Scene 1 

Scene: Northampton. A room in the castle 

Enter Hubert and two attendants 
Hub. 

EAT me these irons hot; and look thou stand 
Within the arras: when I strike my foot 
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, 
And bind the boy which you shall find with me 
East to the chair : be heedful : hence, and watch. 
First Attend. 

I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. 
Hub. Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to't. 

[Exeunt Attendants.] 
Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. 

Enter Arthur 

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. 

Hub. Good morrow, little prince. 

Arth. As little prince, having so great a title 

To be more prince, as may be. You are sad. 

Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. 

Arth. Mercy on me! 

Methinks nobody should be sad but I: 
Yet, I remember, when I was in France, 
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, 
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, 
If I were out of prison and kept sheep, 
I would be as merry as the day is long; 
And so I would be here, but that I doubt 
My uncle practises more harm to me: 
He is afraid of me, and I of him : 
Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey's son? 
No, indeed, is ? t not ; and I would to Heaven 
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. 

Hub. [J.stde.] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate 
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead: 
Therefore I will be sudden and despatch. 

ARTn. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day: 
In sooth, I would you were a little sick, 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 375 

That I might sit all night and watch with you : 
I warrant I love yon more than you do me. 

Hub. [Aside.] His words do take possession of my 
bosom. — 
Eead here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] 

[Aside.] How now, foolish rheum ! 
Turning dispiteous torture out of door! 
I must be brief, lest resolution drop 
Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears. 
Can you not read it? is it not fair writ? 

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect : 

Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? 

Hub. Young boy, I must. 

Arth. And will you? 

Hub. And I will. 

Arth. Have you the heart ? When your head did but ache, 
I knit my handkerchief about your brows 
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me), 
And I did never ask it you again ; 
And with my hand at midnight held your head; 
And like the watchful minutes to the hour, 
Still and anon cheer' d up the heavy time, 
Saying, "What lack you?" and "Where lies your 

grief ? " 
Or " What good love may I perform for you ? " 
Many a poor man's son would have lien still, 
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; 
But you at your sick service had a prince. 
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, 
And call it cunning: do, an if you will: 
If Heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill, 
Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes? 
These eyes that never did nor never shall 
So much as frown on you? 

Hub. I have sworn to do it; 

And with hot irons must I burn them out. 

Arth. An if an angel should have come to me, 

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, 
I would not have believed him, — no tongue but 
Hubert's. 

Hub. Come forth. [Stamps.'] 



376 SELECTED READINGS 

Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, etc. 

Do as I bid you do. 
Arth. Oh, save me, Hubert, save me ! my eyes are out 

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. 
Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 
Arth. Alas ! what need you be so boisterous-rough ? 

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. 

For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! 

Nay, hear me, Hubert ! — drive these men away, 

And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; 

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, 

Nor look upon the iron angerly : 

Thrust but these men away, and I '11 forgive you, 

Whatever torment you do put me to. 
Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. 
First Attend. 

I am best pleased to be from such a deed. 

[Exeunt Attendants.J 
Abth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend! 

He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart: 

Let him come back, that his compassion may 

Give life to yours. 
Hub. Come boy, prepare yourself. 

Arth. Is there no remedy ? 

Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. 

Arth. Heaven ! that there were but a mote in yours, 

A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, 

Any annoyance in that precious sense ! 

Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, 

Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. 
Hub. Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue. 
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues 

Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes; 

Let me not hold my tongue, — let me not, Hubert; 

Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, 

So I may keep mine eyes : oh, spare mine eyes, 

Though to no use but still to look on you! 

Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, 

And would not harm me. 
Hub. I can heat it, boy. 

Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief, 

Being create for comfort, to be used 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 377 

In undeserved extremes; see else yourself; 

There is no malice in this burning coal; 

The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, 

And strew'd repentant ashes on his head. 
Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. 
Arth. An if you do, you will but make it blush, 

And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert: 

Hub. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eye 
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes; 
Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy, 
With this same very iron to burn them out. 

Arth. Oh, now you look like Hubert ! all this while 
You were disguised. 

Hub. Peace; no more. Adieu. 

Your uncle must not know but you are dead; 
I '11 fill these dogged spies with false reports : 
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure, 
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 
Will not offend thee. [Exeunt.] 

Shakespeare. 



SCENES FROM "THE MERCHANT OF 
VENICE " 

POETIA. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary 
of this great world. 

Nerissa. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries 
were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are: and 
yet for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much 
as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness 
therefore, to be seated in the mean : superfluity comes sooner 
by white hairs but competency lives longer. 

Portia. Good sentences, and well pronounced. 

Nerissa. They would be better, if well followed. 

Portia. If to do were as easy as to know what were good 
to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages 
princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own 
instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to 
be done than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teach* 
ing. . . . But this reasoning is not in the fashion to 
choose me a husband. me, the word " choose ! " I may 



378 SELECTED READINGS 

neither choose whom I would, nor refuse whom I dislike; 
so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a 
dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose 
one, nor refuse none? 

Nerissa. Your father was ever virtuous ; and holy men 
at their death have good inspirations ; therefore, the lottery, 
that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver, 
and lead (whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you), 
will, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly but one who 
shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affec- 
tion towards any of these princely suitors that are already 
come? 

Portia. I pray thee, over-name them ; and as thou namest 
them, I will describe them; and, according to my descrip- 
tion, level at my affection. 

Nerissa. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. 

Portia. Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing 
but talk of his horse ; and he makes it a great appropriation 
to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself. 

Nerissa. Then there is the County Palatine. 

Portia. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say, 
" If you will not have me, choose." He hears merry tales, 
and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philos- 
opher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly 
sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's- 
head with a bone in his mouth, than to either of these. 
Heaven defend me from these two ! 

Nerissa. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le 
Bon? 

Portia. Heaven made him, and therefore let him pass 
for a man. 

Nerissa. How like you the young German, the Duke of 
Saxony's nephew? 

Portia. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober; 
and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk: when 
he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is 
worst, he is little better than a beast. An the worst fall 
that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him. 

Nerissa. If he should offer to choose, and choose the 
right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's 
will, if you should refuse to accept him. 

Portia. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, 
set a deep glass of Ehenish wine on the contrary casket; for, 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 379 

if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know 
he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be 
married to a sponge. 

Nerissa. You need not fear, lady, the having any of 
these lords: they have acquainted me with their determina- 
tions ; which is, indeed, to return to their home, and trouble 
you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other 
sort than your father's imposition depending on the caskets. 

Portia. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as 
chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my 
father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reason- 
able, for there is not one among them but I dote on his very 
absence; and I pray Heaven grant them a fair departure. 

Nerissa. Do you not remember lady, in your father's 
time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither 
in company of the Marquis of Montferrat? 

Portia. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio : as I think, he was so 
called. 

Nerissa. True, madam: he, of all the men that ever my 
foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. 

Portia. I remember him well, and I remember him 
worthy of thy praise. 

[Portia speaks to Nerissa, who observes some one ap- 
proaching.] 

How now ! what news ? 

Nerissa. Lord Bassanio has ta'en his oath, and comes to 
his election. 

Enter Bassanio 

Bassanio. I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things : 
First, never to unfold to any one 
Which casket 't was I chose ; Next, if I fail 
Of the right casket, never in my life 
To woo a maid in way of marriage ; lastly, 
If I do fail in fortune of my choice, 
Immediately to leave you and begone. 

Portia. To these injunctions every one doth swear 
That comes to hazard for my worthless self. 

Bassanio. And so have I addressed me. Fortune now 
To my heart's hope ! 

Portia. I pray you, tarry : pause a day or two 

Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong, 
I lose your company : therefore forbear a while. 



380 SELECTED READINGS 

There 's something tells me, but it is not love, 
I would not lose you; and you know yourself, 
Hate counsels not in such a quality. 
... I could teach you 

How to choose right, but then I am forsworn; 
So will I never be : so may you miss me ; 
But if you do you '11 make me wish a sin, 
That I had been forsworn. . . . 
I speak too long; but 't is to peize the time, 
To eke it, and to draw it out in. length, 
To stay you from election. 
Bassanio. Let me choose; 

For as I am I live upon the rack. 
But let me to my fortune and the caskets. 

Bassanio. 'Some god direct my judgment ! Let me see — 
"Who chooseth me shall gain what many men 

desire." 
. . . That " many " may be meant 
By the fool multitude, that choose by show, 
The world is still deceived with ornament. 
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, 
But, being season'd with a gracious voice, 
Obscures the show of evil? In religion, 
What damned error, but some sober brow 
Will bless it and approve it with a text, 
Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? 

Thus ornament is but the guiled shore 

To a most dangerous sea ; . . . 

. . . Therefore, thou gaudy gold, 

Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee. 

"Who chooseth me shall get as much as he 

deserves " : 
And well said too; for who shall go about 
To cozen fortune and be honorable 
Without the stamp of merit? . . . 
Oh, that estates, degrees and offices 
Were not derived corruptly, and that clear 

honor 
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer! 
How many then should cover that stand bare! 
How many be commanded that command! 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 



381 



. . . and how much honor 

Picked from the chaff and ruin of the times, 

To be new-varnish'd ! " Much as he deserves," 

I'll not assume desert. 

"Who chooseth me must give and hazard all 

he hath." 
I'll none of thee, thou pale and common 

drudge 

[Referring to the gold and silver caskets.'] 
? Tween man and man; but thou, thou meagre 

lead, 
Which rather threatenest than dost promise 

aught, 
Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence; 
And here choose I. Joy be the consequence! 
Portia. [Aside.] How all the other passions fleet to air ! 

love! be moderate; allay thy ecstasy; 

1 feel too much thy blessing; make it less, 
For fear I surfeit. 

Bassanio. What find I here? [Opening casket.'] 

The continent and summary of my fortune. 
Pair Portia's counterfeit ! Here is the scroll 

[Beads.] 
" You that choose not by the view, 
Chance as fair, and choose as true! 
Since this fortune falls to you, 
Be content and seek no new. 
If you be well pleased with this 
And hold your fortune for your bliss, 
Turn you where your lady is, 
And claim her with a loving kiss. 
A gentle scroll. — Fair lady, by your leave; 
I come by note, to give and to receive. 
As doubtful whether what I see be true, 
Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you. 
Portia. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
Such as I am: though for myself alone, 
I would not be ambitious in my wish, 
To wish myself much better; yet, for you 
I would be trebled twenty times myself; 
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand 

times 
More rich ; 



382 SELECTED READINGS 

That only to stand high in your account, 
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 
Exceed account: but now I was the lord 
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, 
Queen. o'er myself; and even now, but now, 
This house, these servants, and this same my- 
self 
Are yours, my lord. I give them with this 

ring; 
Which when you part from, lose, or give away, 
Let it presage the ruin of your love 
And be my vantage to exclaim on you. 
Bassanto. Madam, you have bereft me of all words, 
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins; 
. . . But when this ring 
Parts from this finger, then parts life from 

hence : 
0, then be bold to say Bassanio 's dead ! 

Shakespeare. 
'Arranged by Anna Morgan. 



DIALOGUE FROM "MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT " 

SAIREY GAMP. There! Now drat you, Betsey, don't be 
long ! For I can't abear to wait, I do assure you. To 
wotever place I goes, I sticks to this one mortar, " I 'm 
easy pleased ; it is but little as I wants ; but I must have that 
little of the best, and to the minit when the clock strikes, 
else we do not part as I could wish, but bearin' malice in 
our arts. There's the little bell a-ringing now. Betsey 
Prig — 

Betsey Prig. Oh! You're a-talkin', are you? Well, I 
hope you've got over what you were sayin', for I an't in- 
terested in it myself. 

Sairey G. My precious Betsey, how late you are ! 

Betsey. If perwerse people goes off dead when they is 
least expected, it an't no fault of mine. It's quite aggra- 
wation enough to be made late when one is dropping for 
one's tea, without hearing on it again. I know'd she 
would n't have a cowcumber ! 

Sairey. Lord bless you, Betsey Prig, your words is true. 
I quite forgot. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 383 

. Betsey. [After drawing the ingredients of a salad from 
her pocket.] Say no more, Sairey, but slice 'em up to be 
eat now, in plenty of vinegar. And don't go a-dropping 
none of your snuff in it. In gruel, barley-water, apple-tea, 
mutton-broth, and that, it don't signify. It stimulates a 
patient. But I don't relish it myself. 

Sairey. Why, Betsey Prig ! How can you talk so ! 

Betsey. Why, an't your patients, wotever their diseases 
is, always a-sneezin' their wery heads off, along of your 
snuff? 

Sairey. And wot if they are ! 

Betsey. Nothing if they are, but don't deny it, Sairah. 

Sairey. Who deniges of it? Who deniges of it, Betsey? 
Betsey, who deniges of it? 

Betsey. Nobody, if you don't, Sairah. 
* Sairey. Pickled salmon! Sugar! A fresh loaf! Like- 
ways, a few rounds o' buttered toast, first cuttin' off the 
crust, in consequence of tender teeth, and not too many of 
'em; which Gamp, himself, at one blow, being in liquor, 
struck out four, two single and two double, as was took by 
Mrs. Harris for a keepsake, and is carried in her pocket at 
this present hour, along with two cramp bones, a bit o' 
ginger, and a grater like a blessed infant's shoe, in tin, 
with a little heel to put the nutmeg in. 

Betsey. Lord, Sairah ! How 's old Chuffey ? 

Sairey. He's wearing old soul, and that's the sacred 
truth. A worritin', wexagious creeter! I have to shake 
him by the collar a dozen or two times of ting before he 
takes any notice at all. There's nothing like shaking to 
revive 'em, shaking, or bite a person's thumbs, or turn their 
fingers the wrong way and they comes to wonderful, Lord 
bless you! 

Betsey. Ah ! but what a lovely corpse he 'd make ! 

Sairey. He 's far from it yet, my dear, takin' his slime 
draught reg'lr and ventooring to object when I removes his 
piller, my chair not being soft enough. Ah! What a 
blessed thing it is — living in a wale — to be contented! 
What a blessed thing it is to make sick people happy in their 
beds, and never mind one's self as long as one can do a 
service ! I don't believe a finer cowcumber was ever grow'd. 
I 'm sure I never see one. How 's Leewsome ? 

Betsey. He looks a deal charminger than when we are 
there. He got out of bed this morning back'ards, cross as 



384 SELECTED READINGS 

two sticks. I never see sich a man. He wouldn't have 
been washed, if he 'd had his own way. He said I put soap 
in his mouth ! " Could n't you keep it shut then ? " says I, 
" who do you think 's to wash one f eater, and miss another, 
and wear one's eyes out with all manner of fine work of 
that description? If," says I, "you wants to be tittivated, 
you must pay accordin'." 

Sairey. Deuce take the man ! Instead of being grateful 
for all our little ways. Oh, fie for shame, fie for shame! 
If it was n't for the nerve a little sip of liquor gives me (I 
never was able to do more than taste it), I never could go 
through with what I sometimes have to do. " Mrs. Har- 
ris," I says, at the very last case as ever I acted in, which 
it was but a young person, " Mrs. Harris," I says, " leave 
the bottle on the chimley-piece, and don't ask me to take 
none, but let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged, 
and then I will do what I 'm engaged to do, according to 
the best of my ability." " Mrs. Gamp," she says in answer, 
" if ever there was a sober creetur to be got at eighteen 
pence a day for working people, and three and six for gentle- 
folks — night watching being an extra charge — you are 
that unwalable person." " Mrs. Harris," I says to her, 
" don't name the charge, for if I could afford to lay all my 
feller creeturs out for nothink, I would gladly do it, sich 
is the love I bear 'em. No blessed creetur as I ever was 
with in trying times, and they are many in their numbers, 
ever brought it as a charge against myself that I was any- 
thin' but mild and equal in my spirits. Never mind a-con- 
tradicting of me, as you seem to feel it does you good, 
ma'am, I often says, for well you know that Sairey may be 
trusted not to give it back again, not that she did, bless 
her heart, her temper being as sweet as her face, which as 
I often says to her, " Oh, Mrs. Harris, ma'am ! your coun- 
tenance is quite an angel's ! " Which, but for Pimples, it 
would be. 

[Sairey produces the teapot and a couple of wine-glasses.'] 

Sairey. Betsey, I will now propoge a toast. My fre- 
quent pardner, Betsey Prig ! 

Betsey. Which, altering the name to Sairah Gamp, I 
drink, with love and tenderness. Now, Sairah, joining busi- 
ness with pleasure, wot is this case in which you wants me? 
Is it Mrs. Harris? 

Sairey. No, Betsey Prig, it an't. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 385 

Betsey. Well ! I 'm glad of that, at any rate. 

Sairey. Why should you be glad of that, Betsey? She 
is unbeknown to you except by hearsay, why should you be 
glad? If you have anythink to say contrairy to the char- 
acter of Mrs. Harris, which well I knows behind her back, 
afore her face, or anywheres, is not to be impeaged, out 
with it, Betsey. I have know'd that sweetest and best of 
women ever since afore her first, but I have never know'd 
as you had occagion to be glad, Betsey, on account of Mrs. 
Harris not requiring you. Bequire she never will, depend 
upon it, for her constant words in sickness is, and will be, 
" Send for Sairey ! " 

Betsey. Well, it an't her, it seems. Who is it, then ? 

Sairey. You have heard me mention, Betsey, a person 
as I took care on at the time as you and me was pardners 
off and on, in that there fever at the Bull? 

Betsey. Old Snuffey? 

Sairey. Chuffey. Mr. Chuffey, Betsey, is weak in his 
mind. Mr. Chuffey's friends has made proposals for his 
bein' took care on, and has said to me, "Mrs. Gamp, will 
you undertake it? We couldn't think," they says, "of 
trustin' him to nobody but you, for, Sairey, you are gold 
as has passed through the furnage. Will you undertake it, 
at your own price, night and day, and by your own self ? " 
" No," I says, " I will not. Do not reckon on it. There 
is," I says, "but one creetur in this world as I would un- 
dertake on sech terms, and her name is Harris. But," I 
says, " I am acquainted with a friend, whose name is Betsey 
Prig, that I can recommend, and will assist me. Betsey," 
I says, "is always to be trusted, under me, and will be 
guided as I could desire." No, Betsey ! Drink fair, wotever 
you do! Mrs. Harris, Betsey — 

Betsey. Bother Mrs. Harris! I don't believe there's 
no sich a person! 

Sairey. What! you bage creetur, have I know'd Mrs. 
Harris five and thirty year, to be told at last that there 
an't no sech a person livin' ! Have I stood her friend in 
all her troubles, great and small, for it to come at last to 
sech a end as this, which her own sweet picter hanging up 
afore you all the time, to shame your Bragian words ! But 
well you mayn't believe there's no sech a creetur, for she 
would n't demean herself to look at you, and often has she 
said, when I have made mention of your name, which, to 

25 



386 SELECTED READINGS 

my sinful sorrow, I have done, "What, Sairey Gamp! de- 
bage yourself to her!" Go along with you! 

Betsey. I 'm a goin', ma'am, an't I ? 

Sairey. You had better, ma'am. 

Betsey. Do you know who you 're talking to, ma'am ? 

Sairey. Aperiently to Betsey Prig. Aperiently so. I 
know her. No one better. Go long with you! 

Betsey. And you was a-going to take me under you! 
You was, was you ! Oh, how kind ! Why, deuce take your 
impertinence, what do you mean? 

Sairey. Go long with you ! I blush for you. 

Betsey. You had better blush a little for yourself, while 
you are about it. You and your ChuSeys ! What, the poor 
old creetur isn't mad enough, isn't he? Aha! 

Sairey. He 'd very soon be mad enough, if you had any- 
think to do with him. 

Betsey. And that 's what I was wanted for, is it ? Yes. 
But you'll find yourself deceived. I won't go near him. 
We shall see how you get on without me. I won't have 
nothink to do with him. 

Sairey. You never spoke a truer word than that! Go 
along with you. [Exit Mrs. Prig, whose voice can be heard 
as she goes down the stairs, proclaiming her injuries and 
her determination to have nothing to do with Mr. Chuff ey.] 

Sairey. Wot I have took from Betsey Prig this blessed 
night, no mortial creetur knows! If she had abuged me, 
bein' in liquor, which I thought I smelt her wen she 
come, but could not so believe, not being used myself — I 
could have bore it with a thankful art. But the words she 
spoke of Mrs. Harris, lambs could not forgive. No. 
Betsey! nor worms forget! [Sits on table.} 

Arranged by Anna Morgan. 



Dickens. 



LITTLE EM'LY 

From David Copperfield 
Scene: A Hut 

ROSA DAKTLE. [Fiercely.'] So I have found you 
at last? (c.) I have come to look at you. [Em'ly 
is afraid of her.] I have come to see John Steerforth's 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 387 

fancy, — the girl who ran away with him, and is the town- 
talk of the commonest people of her native place. 

Em'ly. Have mercy ! 

Eosa. Stay there ! If you try to evade me, I '11 stop 
you, if it's by the hair of your head, and raise the very 
stones against you ! 

Em'lt. Oh ! spare me ! 

Eosa. Bah ! He was but a poor creature, to be taken by 
that delicate mock-modesty, and that hanging head ! 

Em'ly. For Heaven's sake, don't ! Whoever you are, you 
know my pitiful story; and for Heaven's sake spare me, if 
you would be spared yourself ! 

Eosa. If I would be spared ! What is there in common 
between me and you, do you think? 

Em'ly. Nothing ! [W eeps.] Nothing but our sex. 

Eosa. [Sharply.] Sex! and that is so strong a claim 
preferred by one so infamous that, if I had any feeling in 
my breast but scorn and abhorrence of you, it would freeze 
it up. Our sex ! You are an honor to our sex. 

Em'ly. I have deserved this — but it's dreadful! 
[Wrings her hands.~\ Dear, dear lady, think what I have 
suffered and how I have fallen. 

Eosa. [Sneering.'] Do you hope to move me by your 
tears? No more than you could charm me by your smiles, 
you purchased slave ! 

Em'ly. Oh, show me some compassion or I shall die — 
die mad! 

Eosa. That would be no great penance for your crime! 
Do you know what you have done? Do you ever think of 
the home you have laid waste? 

Em'ly. [Uncovers her face and stares around her and 
sobs.] Oh! Is there ever a night or day when I haven't 
thought of it ? [Throws herself on her "knees supplicatingly.] 
Has there ever been a single minute, waking or sleeping, 
when it has n't been before me just as it used to be in the 
lost days when I turned my back upon it ? Oh, home, home 
that I have made desolate! 

Eosa. Your home! This hovel! Do you imagine that 
I bestow a thought on it, or suppose you could do any harm 
to this low place which money would not pay for, and hand- 
somely ? Your home, ha, ha ! You were a part of the trade 
of your home, and were bought and sold like any other 
vendible thing your people dealt in ! 



388 SELECTED READINGS 

Em'ly. [Indignantly.'] No, not that ! [Rises proudly. ] 
Say anything of me, but don't visit my shame and disgrace 
more than I have done on folks who are as honorable as you ! 
Have some respect for them, as you are a lady, if you have 
no mercy for me. 

Eosa. I spoke of his home, where I live. You are a 
worthy cause of division between lady mother and gentleman 
son ; of grief in a house where you would n't have been ad- 
mitted as a kitchen-girl. A piece of pollution, picked up 
from the water-side, to be made much of, for an hour, and 
then tossed back to its original place ! 

Em'ly. No, no ! [Sorrowfully, but gaining strength as 
she proceeds.] "When he first came into my life — oh, that 
the day had never dawned upon me, and he had met me 
carried to my grave ! — I had been brought up as virtuous 
as you or any lady, and [Very sadly, out firmly.'] was going 
to be the wife of as good a man as you or any lady in the 
world can ever marry! If you live in his house, and know 
him, you know perhaps what his power with a weak, vain 
girl may be! [Rosa starts angrily.] I don't defend my- 
self; [Shakes her head mournfully.] but I know well, and 
he knows well, [Forcibly.] or he will know when he comes to 
die, and his mind is troubled with it, that he used all his 
power to deceive me, and that I [Sobs.] believed him, trusted 
him, and — [Slight pause.] loved him ! 

Eosa. [Angrily.] You loved him? You? [Em'ly draws 
back from her.] And tell that to me with your shameful 
lips? Why don't they whip these creatures? If I could 
order it to be done, I would have this girl whipped to death ! 

Em'ly. Uncle ! Uncle ! why don't you come ? 

Eosa. Hide yourself somewhere! Let it be in some ob- 
scure life — or, better still, in some obscure death ! 

Em'ly. [Sobbing.] Will he never come? Oh, what shall 
I do? 

Eosa. Do ? Die ! [Seizing her by the arm.] There are 
doorways and dust-heaps for such deaths and such despair 
— find one, and take your flight to heaven ! [Casts her upon 
the floor, and exit.] 

Dickens. 

Adapted by Anna Morgan. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 389 



DIALOGUE FROM "DAVID COPPERFIELD" 

MISS BETSEY. Go away! Go along! No boys here! 
David. If you please, ma'am — If you please, 
aunt — 
Miss B. Eh? 

David. If you please, aunt, I am your nephew. 
Miss B. Oh, Lord ! 

David. I am David Copperfield, and I have been very 
unhappy since my dear mama died. She married Mr. 
Murdstone, and I have been slighted, and taught nothing, 
and put to work not fit for me. It made me run away 
to you. I was robbed at first setting out, and have walked 
all the way, and have never slept in a bed since I began 
the journey. 

[Miss Trotwood administers restoratives, ejaculating " Mercy 
on us!" at intervals. She rings the bell.] 
Miss B. Janet, go up stairs, give my compliments to 
Mr. Dick, and say I wish to speak to him. [Administers. 
to David.] 

Enter Mr. Dick 

Mr. Dick, don't be a fool, because nobody can be more 
discreet than you can when you choose. We all know that. 
So don't be a fool, whatever you are. Mr. Dick, you have 
heard me mention David Copperfield? Now don't pretend 
not to have a memory, because you and I know better. 

Mr. Dick. David Copperfield? David Copperfield? Oh, 
yes, to be sure. David, certainly. 

Miss B. Well, this is his boy, his son. 

Mr. Dick. His son? David's son? Indeed! 

Miss B. Yes, and he has done a pretty piece of business. 
He has run away, and the question I put to you is, what 
shall I do with him? 

Mr. Dick. What shall you do with him? Oh! do with 
him? 

Miss B. Yes, come! I want some very sound advice. 

Mr. Dick. Why, if I was you, I should — I should wash 
him! 

Miss B. Janet, Mr. Dick sets us all right. Heat the 
bath! [Janet leaves the room and Miss Betsey, looking 
out of the window, calls.'] 



390 SELECTED READINGS 

Miss B. Janet ! Donkeys ! [Exeunt Janet and Miss B.~\ 

Mr. Dick. Ha ! Phoebus ! How does the world go ? I '11 
tell you what, I should not wish it to be mentioned, but it 's 
a mad world. Mad as Bedlam, boy. You have been to 
school ? 

David. Yes, sir, for a short time. 

Mr. Dick. Do you recollect the date when King Charles 
the First had his head cut off? 

David. I believe, sir, that it was in 1649. 

Mr. Dick. Well, so the books say; but I don't see how 
that can be. Because, if it was so long ago, how could the 
people about him have made that mistake of putting some 
of the trouble out of Ms head, after it was taken off, into 
mine? It's very strange that I never can get that quite 
right. But no matter, no matter! What do you think of 
that for a kite? 

David. It's a beautiful one. 

Mr. Dick. I made it. Do you see this? It's all cov- 
ered with writing. There's plenty of string, and when it 
flies high, it takes the facts a long way. That's my man- 
ner of diffusing 'em. I don't know where they may come 
down. I take my chance of that. I must go to work now; 
some day we '11 fly it. [Exit Mr. D. and enter Miss Betsey.'] 

Miss B. Well, child, what do you think of Mr. Dick? 
Come, be as direct as you can, and speak out. 

David. Is he — is Mr. Dick — I ask because I don't 
know, aunt, is he at all out of his mind, then? 

Miss B. Not a morsel! 

David. Oh, indeed! 

Miss B. If there's anything in the world that Mr. 
Dick 's not, it 's that. He has been called mad, and nice 
people they were who had the audacity to call him mad. 
But I stepped in and made them an offer. Let him have 
his little income and come to live with me. I am not afraid 
of him. After a good deal of squabbling I got him; and 
he has been with me for ten years and upwards. He is 
the most friendly and amenable creature in existence; and 
as for advice ! But nobody knows what that man's mind 
is, except myself — Janet! Donkeys! Go along with you! 
You have no business here. How dare you trespass? Go 
along! Oh, you bold-faced thing! 

David. Oh, aunt! It is Mr. Murdstone and his sister! 

Miss B. I don't care who it is! I won't be trespassed 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES S91 

upon. I won't allow it. Go away ! Janet, turn him round. 
Lead him off! 

David. Shall I go away, aunt? 

Miss B. No, sir, certainly not! [Enter Mr. and Miss 
Murdstone.] Oh, I was not aware at first to whom I had 
the pleasure of objecting. But I don't allow anybody to 
ride over that turf. I make no exceptions. I don't allow 
anybody to do it. 

Miss Murdstone. Your regulation is rather awkward to 
strangers. 

Miss B. Is it? 

Me. Murdstone. Miss Trotwood! 

Miss B. I beg your pardon. You are the Mr. Murdstone 
who married the widow of my late nephew, David Copper- 
field? 

Mr. M. I am. 

Miss B. You will excuse my saying, sir, that I think it 
would have been a much happier thing if you had left that 
poor child alone. 

Miss M. I so far agree with what Miss Trotwood has 
remarked, that I consider our lamented Clara to have been, 
in all essential respects, a mere child! 

Miss B. It's a comfort to me and to you, ma'am, who 
are getting on in life, and are not likely to be made un- 
happy by our personal attractions, that nobody can say the 
same of us. 

Miss M. No doubt! And it certainly might have been 
better for my brother if he had never entered into such a 
marriage. I have always been of that opinion. 

Miss B. I have no doubt you have. [Ringing the 
bell.'] Janet, my compliments to Mr. Dick, and beg him 
to come down. [Enter Mr. Dick.'] 

Miss B. Mr. Dick, an old and intimate friend, on whose 
judgment I rely. 

Mr. M. I thought best, Miss Trotwood, to follow this 
unhappy boy who has run away from his friends and his 
occupation, to follow in person instead of writing, as I 
considered it an act of greater justice to myself, and per- 
haps of more respect to you — 

Miss B. Thank you. You need n't mind me. 

Miss M. His appearance is perfectly scandalous and dis- 
graceful. 

Mr. M. Janet Murdstone, have the goodness not to 



392 SELECTED READINGS 

interrupt me. This unhappy boy has been the occasion of 
much domestic trouble. He has a sullen, rebellious spirit; 
a violent temper, and an untoward and intractable dispo- 
sition. Both my sister and myself have endeavored to cor- 
rect his vices, but ineffectually. And I have felt — we both 
have felt, I may say, my sister being fully in my confidence 

— that it is right you should receive this grave and dis- 
passionate assurance from our lips. 

Miss M. It can hardly be necessary for me to confirm 
anything stated by my brother, but I beg to remark that, of 
all the boys in the world, I believe this is the worst boy. 

Miss B. Strong! 

Miss M. But not too strong for the facts. 

Miss B. Ha! Well, sir? 

Mr. M. I am here, Miss Trotwood, to take David back 

— to take him back unconditionally; to dispose of him as 
I think proper, and to deal with him as I thing right. I 
am not here to make any promise, or give a pledge to any- 
body. You may have some idea of abetting him in his 
running away. Your manner, which I must say does not 
seem intended to propitiate, induces me to think it possible. 
If you step in between him and me now, you must step in, 
Miss Trotwood, forever. I cannot trifle or be trifled with. 
Is he ready to go? 

Miss B. Well, ma'am, have you got anything to re- 
mark? 

Miss M. Indeed, Miss Trotwood, all that I could say 
has been so well said by my brother that I have nothing to 
add except my thanks for your politeness, I am sure. 

Miss B. And what does the boy say? Are you ready to 
go, David? 

David. Oh, no, no. Please, aunt, don't let me go. They 
always hated me. Please dear, dear aunt, protect me, for 
my father's sake. 

Miss B. Mr. Dick, what shall I do with this child? 

Mr. Dick. Have him measured for a suit of clothes 
directly. 

Miss B. Mr. Dick, give me your hand, for your common 
sense is invaluable. [To Mr. M.] You can go when you 
like ; I '11 take my chance with the boy. If he is all you say 
he is, at least I can do as much for him, then, as you have 
done. But I don't believe a word of it! 

Mr. M. Miss Trotwood, if you were a gentleman — 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 393 

Miss B, Bah ! Stuff and nonsense ! Don't talk to me ! 

Miss M. How exquisitely polite ! Overpowering, really ! 

Miss B. Do you think I don't know what kind of a life 
you must have led your poor, unhappy, misdirected wife? 
Do you think I don't know what a woful day it was for the 
soft little creature when you first came in her way — smirk- 
ing and making eyes at her, I '11 be bound, as if you 
couldn't say boh! to a goose? 

Miss M. I never heard anything so elegant ! 

Miss B. Do you think I can't understand you as well as 
if I had seen you, now that I do see you and hear you, 
which I tell you candidly, is anything but a pleasure to me ? 
Ugh ! Get along with you, do ! 

Miss M. I never heard anything like this person in my 
life ! It is either insanity or intoxication, and my suspicion 
is, that it's intoxication! 

Miss B. Mr. Murdstone, you were a tyrant and you 
broke her heart. There is truth for your comfort, however 
you like it. And you and your instruments may make the 
most of it. 

Miss M. Allow me to inquire, Miss Trotwood, whom you 
are pleased to call in a choice of words in which I am not 
experienced, my brother's instruments? 

Miss B. It was clear enough that the poor, soft, little 

thing would marry somebody at some time or other, but I 

did hope it wouldn't have been as bad as it turned out. 

Ay, ay! You needn't wince! I know it's true without 

that ! Good-day, sir, and good-bye ! Good-day to you, ma'am. 

Let me see you ride a donkey over my green again, and as 

sure as you have a head upon your shoulders, I '11 knock your 

bonnet off, and tread upon it. 

Dickens. 
Adapted by Anna Morgan. 



DIALOGUE FROM "NICHOLAS NICKLEBY" 

Mrs. Nickleby and the Mad Neighbor 

MRS. 1ST. Ah, if Nicholas knew what his poor, dear 
papa suffered before we were engaged, when I used 
to hate him, he would have a little more feeling. Shall I 
ever forget the morning I looked scornfully at him when 
he offered to carry my parasol? Or that night when I 



394 SELECTED READINGS 

frowned at him? It was a mercy he didn't emigrate. It 
very nearly drove him to it. 

Kate. Mama, before you were married — 

Mrs. N". Dear me, Kate, what in the name of goodness 
graciousness makes you fly off to the time before I was 
married? You don't seem to take the smallest interest in 
the garden. 

Kate. Oh, you know that I do ! 

Mrs. N". I scarcely ever hear you speak of it, my dear. 
What was it you were going to say? 

Kate. About what, mama? 

Mrs. N. Lor, Kate, my dear, why, you're asleep or 
stupid. About the time before I was married. 

Kate. Oh, yes, I remember. I was going to ask, mama, 
before you were married, had you many suitors? 

Mrs. N". I had indeed, my dear, not including your poor 
papa, or a young gentleman who used to go at that time 
to the same dancing-school and who would send gold 
watches and gold bracelets to our house in gilt-edged paper 
(which was always returned), and who afterwards unfor- 
tunately went out to Botany Bay in a cadet ship — a con- 
vict ship, I mean — and escaped into the bush and killed 
sheep and was going to be hung, only he accidentally 
choked himself and the Government pardoned him. When 
I was not nearly as old as you, my dear, there was a young 
gentleman who sat next us at church who used, almost every 
Sunday, to cut my name in large letters in the front of his 
pew while the sermon was going on. It was gratifying, of 
course, naturally so, but still it was an annoyance, because 
the pew was in a very conspicuous place, and he was several 
times publicly taken out by the beadle for doing it. Then 
there was young Lukin, — Mogely — Tipslark — Cabbery 
— Smif ser — 

Neighbor. Hem ! 

Kate. Mama, what was that? 

Mrs. N". Upon my word, my dear, unless it was the gen- 
tleman belonging to the next house, I don't know what it 
could possibly — 

Neighbor. Hem ! 

Mrs. HT. I understand it now, my dear. Don't be 
alarmed, my love, it 's not directed to you, and it 's not in- 
tended to frighten anybody. Let us give everybody their 
due, Kate. I am bound to say that. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 395 

Kate. What do you mean, mama? 

Mrs. N. Don't be flurried, my dear, for you see I'm 
not, and if it would be excusable in anybody to be flurried, 
it certainly would — under all circumstances — be excusa- 
ble in me, but I am not, Kate, — not at all. 

Kate. It seems designed to attract our attention, mama. 

Mrs. N. It is designed to attract our attention, my 
dear — at least — to attract the attention of one of us. 
Hem ! You need n't be at all uneasy, my dear. 

[Mad neighbor appears from behind the garden wall.~\ 

Kate. Mama ! Why do you stop ? Why do you lose an 
instant ? Mama, pray come in ! 

Mrs. N. Kate, my dear, how can you be so foolish ? I 'm 
ashamed of you. How do you suppose you are ever to get 
through life, if you 're such a coward as this ? What do you 
want, sir ? How dare you look into this garden ? 

Neighbor. Queen of my soul, this goblet sip ! 

Mrs. N. Nonsense, sir. Kate, my love, pray be quiet. 

Neighbor. Won't you sip the goblet? Oh, do sip the 
goblet ! 

Mrs. N. I shall not consent to anything of the kind, 
sir. Pray begone! 

Neighbor. Why is it that beauty is always obdurate, 
even when admiration is as honorable and respectful as 
mine? Is it owing to the bees, who, when the honey season 
is over, and they are supposed to have been killed with 
brimstone, in reality fly to Barbary and lull the captive 
Moors to sleep with their drowsy songs? Or is it in con- 
sequence of the statue at Charing Cross having been lately 
seen, on the Stock Exchange at midnight, walking arm-in- 
arm with the pump from Aldgate in a riding habit? 

Kate. Mama, do you hear him? 

Mrs. N. Hush, my dear, he is very polite, and I think 
that was a quotation from the poets. Pray don't worry me 
so — you '11 pinch my arm black and blue. Go away, sir ! 

Neighbor. Quite away? Oh, quite away? 

Mrs. N. Yes, certainly. You have no business here. 
This is private property here, sir ; you ought to know that. 

Neighbor. I do know that this is a sacred and enchanted 
spot, where the most divine charms waft mellifluousness 
over the neighbors' gardens, and force the fruit and vege- 
tables into premature existence. That fact I am acquainted 
with. But will you permit me, fairest creature, to ask 



396 SELECTED READINGS 

you one question, in the absence of the planet Venus, who has 
gone on business to the Horse Guards, and would otherwise 

— jealous of your superior charms — interpose between us? 
Mrs. N. Kate, it's very awkward, positively. I really 

don't know what to say to this gentleman. One ought to 
be civil, you know. 

Kate. Dear mama, don't say a word to him, but let us 
run away as fast as we can, and shut ourselves up until my 
brother comes home. 

Mrs. N. If you will conduct yourself, sir, like the gen- 
tleman I should imagine you to be, from your language and 

— and — appearance (quite the counterpart of your dear 
grandpapa, Kate, my dear, in his best days), and will put 
your question to me in plain words, I will answer it. 

Neighbor. The question is — Are you a princess ? 

Mrs. N. You are mocking me, sir. 

Neighbor. No, but are you? 

Mrs. N. You know that I am not, sir. 

Neighbor. Then are you any relation to the Archbishop 
of Canterbury? or to the Pope of Rome? or the Speaker of 
the House of Commons? Forgive me if I am wrong, but I 
was told you were niece to the Commissioners of Paving, 
and daughter-in-law to the Lord Mayor and Court of Com- 
mon Council, which would account for your relationship to 
all three. 

Mrs. N. Whoever has spread such reports, sir, has taken 
great liberties with my name, and one which I am sure my 
son Nicholas, if he was aware of it, would not allow for an 
instant. The idea ! Niece to the Commissioners of Paving. 

Kate. Pray, mama, come away! 

Mrs. N. Pray, mama ! Nonsense, Kate, but that 's just 
the way. If they had said I was niece to a piping bullfinch, 
what would you care ? But I have no sympathy — I don't 
expect it, that 's one thing. 

Neighbor. Tears! Catch the crystal globules — catch 
'em — bottle 'em — cork 'em tight — put sealing wax on 
the top — seal 'em with Cupid — label 'em " Best Quality " 
and stow 'em away in the fourteen binn, with a bar of iron 
on the top to keep the thunder off! Cormoran and Blun- 
derbore ! She is come ! Where are grace, beauty and 
blandishments like these? In the Empress of Madagascar? 
No. In the Queen of Diamonds ? No. Melt all these down 
into one with the three graces, the nine Muses, and fourteen 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 397 

biscuit-makers' daughters from Oxford Street, and make a 
woman half as lovely. Pho ! I defy you ! No. In Mrs. Bow- 
land, who every morning bathes in Kalydor for nothing ? 

Beautiful madam, if I have made any mistake with re- 
gard to your family or connections, I humbly beseech you 
to pardon me. If I supposed you to be related to Foreign 
Powers or Native Boards, it is because you have a manner, 
a carriage, a dignity, which you will excuse my saying that 
none but yourself (with the single exception, perhaps, of 
the Tragic Muse when playing extemporaneously on the 
barrel organ before the East India Company) can parallel. 
I am not a youth, ma'am, as you see; and although beings 
like you can never grow old, I venture to presume that we 
are fitted for each other. 

Mrs. N. Beally, Kate, my love ! 

Neighbor. I have estates, ma'am, jewels, lighthouses, 
fish-ponds, a whalery of my own in the North Sea, and 
several oyster-beds of great profit in the Pacific Ocean. If 
you will have the kindness to step down to the Eoyal Ex- 
change and to take the cocked hat off the stoutest beadle's 
head, you will find my card in the lining of the crown, 
wrapped up in a piece of blue paper. My walking stick is 
also to be seen on application to the chaplain of the House 
of Commons, who is strictly forbidden to take any money 
for showing it. I have enemies about me, ma'am, who at- 
tack me on all occasions and wish to secure my property. If 
you bless me with your hand and heart, you can apply to 
the Lord Chancellor, or call out the military if necessary, 
— sending my toothpick to the Commander-in-Chief will be 
sufficient — and so clear the house of them before the cere- 
mony is performed. After that, love, bliss, and rapture ; rap- 
ture, love, and bliss. Be mine, be mine ! Be mine, be mine ! 

Mrs. N. Kate, my dear, I have hardly the power to 
speak ; but it is necessary for the happiness of all parties that 
this matter should be set at rest for ever. 

Kate. Surely there is no necessity for you to say one 
word, mama? 

Mrs. N. You will allow me, my dear, if you please, to 
judge for myself. 

Neighbor. Be mine! Be mine! 

Mrs. N. It can scarcely be expected, sir, that I should 
tell a stranger whether I feel flattered and obliged by such 
proposals or not. They certainly are made under very singular 



398 SELECTED READINGS 

circumstances ; still, at the same time, as far as- it goes, and 
to a certain extent, of course, they must be gratifying and 
agreeable to one's feelings. 

Neighbor. Be mine ! mine ! Gog and Magog, Gog and 
Magog. Be mine ! Be mine ! 

Mrs. N. It will be sufficient for me to say, sir, and I 'm 
sure you '11 see the propriety of taking an answer and going 
away — that I have made up my mind to remain a widow, 
and to devote myself to my children. You may not suppose 
I am the mother of two children — indeed, many people 
have doubted it, and said that nothing on earth could 
ever make 'em believe it possible — but it is the case, and 
they are both grown up. We shall be very glad to have you 
for a neighbor — very glad ; delighted, I 'm sure — but in 
any other character it's quite impossible, quite. As to my 
being young enough to marry again, that perhaps may be 
so, or it may not be ; but I could n't think of it for an in- 
stant, not on any account whatever. I said I never would, 
and I never will. It 's a very painful thing to have to re- 
ject proposals, and I would much rather that none were 
made ; at the same time, this is the answer that I determined 
long ago to make, and this is the answer I shall always give. 
[The mad neighbor is by this time on the top of the wall, and 
at this point in the conversation hands appear and clasp 
his ankles.'] 

Neighbor. It's you, is it? 

Gardener. Yes, it 's me. 

Neighbor. How 's the Emperor of Tartary ? 

Gardener. Oh ! he 's much the same as usual ; no better 
and no worse. 

Neighbor. The young Prince of China, is he reconciled 
to his father-in-law, the great potato salesman ? 

Gardener. No, and he says he never will be, that 's more. 

Neighbor. If that 's the case, perhaps I 'd better come 
down. 

Gardener. Well, I think you had, perhaps. - 
[The mad neighbor disappears behind the wall, his place 
being presently taken by the gardener.] 

Gardener. Beg your pardon, ladies. Has he been mak- 
ing love to either of you? 

Kate. Yes. 

Gardener. Ah, he always will, you know. Nothing will 
prevent his making love. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 399 

Kate. I need not ask if he is out of his mind, poor 
creature. 

Gardener. Why, no. That's pretty plain, that is. 

Kate. Has he been long so? 

Gardener. A long while. 

Kate. And is there no hope for him? 

Gardener. Not a bit, and don't deserve to be. He's a 
deal pleasanter without his senses than with 'em. He was 
the cruellest, wickedest, out-and-outerest old flint that ever 
drawed breath. 

Kate. Indeed ! 

Gardener. By George ! I never came across such a vaga- 
bond, and my mate says the same. Broke his poor wife's 
heart, turned his daughters out of the doors, drove his sons 
into the streets — it was a blessing he went mad at last, 
through evil tempers, and covetousness, and selfishness, and 
guzzling, and drinking, or he 'd have drove many others so. 
Hope for him, an old rip ! There is n't too much hope go- 
ing, but I '11 bet a crown that what there is, is saved for more 
deserving chaps than him, any how. [Exit gardener.] 

Kate. Poor creature ! 

Mrs. N. Ah, poor indeed ! It 's shameful that such things 
should be allowed — shameful ! 

Kate. How can they be helped, mama? The infirmities 
of nature — 

Mrs. N. Nature ! What ! Do you suppose this poor gen- 
tleman is out of his mind ? He is nothing of the kind and I 
am surprised you can be so imposed upon. He may be a 
little odd and flighty, perhaps, — many of us are that ; but 
downright mad! And express himself as he does, respect- 
fully and in quite poetical language, and making offers with 
so much thought and care and prudence — not as if he ran 
into the streets and went down upon his knees to the first 
chit of a girl he met, as a madman would ! No, no, Kate — 
there's a great deal too much method in his madness; de- 
pend upon that, my dear. 

[Mad neighbor appears again from behind the wall.'] 

Neighbor. Avaunt — Cat ! 

Mrs. N. Sir!. 

Neighbor. Cat! Puss, Kit, Tit, Grimalkin, Tabby, 
Brindle — Whoosh ! 

Dickens. 

Arranged by Anna Morgan. 



400 SELECTED READINGS 



DIALOGUE FROM "THE PICKWICK PAPERS" 

SAM WELLER. My fayther, ven will he be here? 
Barmaid. He won't be here this three-quarters of an 
hour or more. 

Sam. Wery good, my dear. Let me have nine penn'orth 

o' brandy and water luke, and the inkstand, will you, miss ? 

[Sam writes painfully for a few moments, then rings for 

the barmaid. She brings him another glass of brandy, 

and then — ] 

Barmaid. There 's a gentleman asking for Doctors' Com- 
mons. Could you tell me where they are ? 

Sam. You ought to know that, my dear. Low archway 
on the carriage side, bookseller's at one corner, hotel on the 
other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licenses. 

Barmaid. Touts for licenses? 

Sam. Don't pretend, my dear, that you don't know wot 
that means ! A bad lot they is, too. They put things into 
old gen'lem'ns' heads as they never dreamed of. My father 
was a coachman and his missus died and leaves him four 
hundred pounds. Down he goes to the Commons to see the 
lawyer and draw the blunt — wery smart — top boots on — 
nosegay in his buttonhole — broad-brimmed tile — green shawl 
— quite the gen'lem'n. Goes through the archvay, thinking 
how he should inwest the money — up comes a touter, touches 
his hat, " License, sir ? " " What license," says my father. 
" Marriage license," says the touter. " Dash my veskit," says 
my father, " I never thought o' that. Damme, I 'm too old, 
b'sides I 'm a many sizes too large." " Not a bit of it," says 
the touter. " This way, sir, this way ! " and, sure enough, 
my father walks arter him like a tame Inonkey behind the 
horgan. " What 's the lady 's name ? " says the lawyer. 
"Blessed if I know, no more nor you do," says my father, 
" but put down Mrs. Clarke, Susan Clarke, Markis O'Granby, 
Dorking; she'll have me if I ask, I des-say." The license 
was made out and she did have him, and wot 's more she 's 
got him now, and I never had any of the four hundred pounds, 
worse luck. Wot was it you wanted to know, my dear? 

Barmaid. Here 's the old gentleman. 

Tony Weller. Veil, Sammy. 

Sam. Veil, my Prooshan Blue. What 's the last bulletin 
about mother-in-law? 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 401 

Tony. Mrs. Weller passed a wery good night, but is un- 
common perwerse and unpleasant this mornin', — signed 
upon oath, S. Weller, Esq., Senior. That 's the last vun as 
was issued, Sammy. 

Sam. No better yet? 

Tony. All the symptoms aggerawated. Vy, I tell you 
what, Sammy, there never was a nicer woman as a widder 
than that 'ere second wentur o' mine — a sweet creetur she 
was, Sammy; all I can say on her now is, that as she was 
such an uncommon pleasant widder, it's a great pity she 
ever changed her condition. She don't act as a vife, Sammy. 

Sam. Don't she, though? 

Tony. I 've done it once too often, Sammy ; I 've done 
it once too often. Take example by your father, my boy, 
and be wery careful o' widders all your life, specially if 
they've kept a public house, Sammy. She's been gettin' 
rayther in the Methodistical order lately, Sammy ; and she 's 
uncommon pious, to be sure. She 's too good a creetur for 
me. I feel I don't deserve her. 

Sam. Ah, that's wery self-denyin' o' you. 

Tony. Wery. She's got hold o' some inwention for 
grown-up people being born again, Sammy — the new birth, 
I thinks they calls it. I should wery much like to see your 
mother-in-law born agin. Would n't I put her out to nurse ! 
What do you think them women does t'other day? What 
do you think they does, t' other day, Sammy ? 

Sam. Don't know. What? 

Tony. Goes and gets up a grand tea-drinkin' for a feller 
they calls their shepherd. I dresses myself out wery smart, 
and off I goes vith the old 'ooman, and up we valks into a 
furst floor where there was tea things for thirty and a lot of 
old women as begins whisperin' to one another as if they 'd 
never seen a rayther stout gen'lem'n of eight-and-fifty afore. 
By and bye, there comes a great bustle and a lanky chap with 
a red nose, called Stiggins, rushes in, and sings out " Here 
is a shepherd a-comin' to visit his faithful flock"; and in 
comes a fat chap a-smilin' avay like clock-work. " The kiss 
of peace," says the shepherd, and then he kissed the women 
all round, and ven he'd done, the man with the red nose 
began. I was just a-thinkin' whether I had n't better begin 
too, ven in comes the tea. At it they went, tooth and nail; 
I wish you could have seen the shepherd walkin' into the ham 
and muffins. I never see such a chap to eat and drink, never. 

26 



402 SELECTED READINGS 

The red-nosed man war n't by no means the sort of person 
you'd like to grub by contract, but he was nothin' to the 
shepherd. Then the shepherd began to preach, and wery 
well he did it, considerin' how heavy them muffins must have 
lied on his chest. Presently they all began to groan, and he 
says, " Where is the sinner ? Where is the miserable sinner ? " 
" My friend," says I, " did you apply that e're obserwation 
to me ? " 'Stead of beggin' my pardon, as any gen'lem'n 
would ha' done, he called me a wessel, Sammy, a wessel of 
-wrath. So my blood being reg'larly up, I give him two or 
three for himself and walked off. I wish you could ha' heard 
how the women screamed ven they picked up the shepherd 
from under the table. This here red-nosed man, Sammy, 
visits your mother-in-law vith a kindness and constancy as 
I never see equalled. He 's sech a friend o' the family, that 
ven he 's away from us, he can't be comfortable unless he has 
somethin' to remember us by. 

Sam. And I 'd give him somethin' as 'ud turpentine and 
bees'-wax his memory for the next ten years or so, if I wos 
you. 

Tony. Stop a minute. I wos a-goin' to say, he always 
brings now a flat bottle as holcis about a pint and a half and 
fills it with pineapple rum afore he goes avay. 

Sam. And empties it afore he comes back, I s'pose ? 

Tony. Clean ! never leaves nothin' in it but the cork and 
the smell. 

Sam. I 've only got to say this here, that if I was the 
properiator o' the Markis o' Granby, and that 'ere Stiggins 
came and sat in my bar — 

Tony. What? What? 

Sam. I 'd pison his rum and water. 

Tony. No ! would you raly, Sammy ? would you, though ? 

Sam. I would. I would n't be too hard on him at first. 
I 'd drop just him into the water-butt, and put the lid on ; 
and if I found he was insensible to kindness, I 'd try the other 
persvasion. [Sam takes a drink of ale.'] 

Tony. Wery good power o' suction, Sammy. You 'd ha' 
made a uncommon fine oyster, Sammy, if you 'd been born in 
that station o' life. 

Sam. Yes, I des-say I should ha' managed to pick up a 
respectable livin'. 

Tony. I 'm wery sorry to hear as you let yourself be 
gammoned by that 'ere mulberry man. I always thought, up 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 403 

to three days ago, that the names of Veller and gammon 
could never come in contact, Sammy, never. 

Sam. Always exceptin' the case of a widder, of course. 

Tony. Widders, Sammy, are 'ceptions to ev'ry rule. I 
have heerd how many ordinary women one widder 's equal to, 
in pint o' comin' over you. I think it 's nve-and-twenty, but 
I don't rightly know vether it ain't more. 

Sam. Well, that's pretty well. 

Tony. Besides, that 's a wery different thing. You know 
what the counsel said, Sammy, as defended the gen'lem'n as 
beat his wife with a poker, venever he got jolly. " And arter 
all, my lord," says he, "it's a amiable weakness." So I 
says respectin' widders, Sammy, and so you'll say ven you 
gets as old as me. Vy, your governor, Sammy, he 's not free 
from it. He's going to be tried to-morrow for breach of 
promise, ain't he? and ain't it a widder? But wot's that 
you're a-doin' of — pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, 
— eh, Sammy? 

Sam. I 've done now. I 've been a-writin'. 

Tony. So I see. Not to any young 'ooman, I hope, 
Sammy. 

Sam. Why, it ? s no use sayin' it ain't. It 's a walentine. 

Tony. A what? 

Sam. A walentine. 

Tony. Samivel, Samivel, I did n't think you 'd ha' done 
it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your father's wicious 
perpensities ; arter all I 've said to you upon this here wery 
subject; arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o ? 
your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought wos a 
moral lesson as no man could ever ha' forgotten to his dyin' 
day! I didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't 
think you 'd ha' done it ! 

Sam. Wot 's the matter, now ? 

Tony. Nev'r mind, Sammy, it'll be a wery agonizin' 
trial to me at my time o' life, but I 'm pretty tough, that 's 
vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked ven the 
farmer said he wos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him 
for the London market. 

Sam. Wot '11 be a trial? 

Tony. To see you married, Sammy — to see you a 
dilluded wictim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's 
all wery capital. It 's a dreadful trial to a father's f eelin's, 
that 'ere, Sammy. 



404 SELECTED READINGS 

Sam. Nonsense. I ain't a-goin' to get married, don't you 
fret yourself about that; I know you're a judge o' these 
things. I '11 read you the letter, — there. 

Sam. "Lovely — " 

Tony. Stop. A double glass o' the invariable, my dear. 

Barmaid. Very well, sir. 

Sam. They seem to know your ways here. 

Tony. Yes, I 've been here before, in my time. Go on, 
Sammy. 

Sam. " Lovely creetur." 

Tony. Tain't in poetry, is it? 

Sam. No, no. 

Tony. Wery glad to hear it. Poetry 's unnat'ral ; never 
you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, 
Sammy. 

Sam. " Lovely creetur, I feel myself a damned — " 

Tony. That ain't proper. 

Sam. No ; it ain't " damned " ; it 's " shamed." There 's 
a blot there. " I feel myself ashamed." 

Tony. Wery good. Go on. 

Sam. " Feel myself ashamed and completely cir — " I 
forget wot this here word is. 

Tony. Why don't you look at it, then ? 

Sam. So I am a-lookin' at it, but there's another blot. 
Here 's a c and a i and a d. 

Tony. " Circumwented," p'raps. 

Sam. No, it ain't that. " Circumscribed " ; that 's it. 

Tony. That ain't as good a word as "circumwented," 
Sammy. 

Sam. Think not? 

Tony. Nothin' like it. 

Sam. But don't you think it means more? 

Tony. Veil, p'raps it is a more tenderer word. Go on, 
Sammy. 

Sam. " Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed 
in a dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it." 

Tony. That 's a wery pretty sentiment. 

Sam. Yes, I think it is rayther good. 

Tony. Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin' is that 
there ain't no callin' names in it, — no Wenuses, nor nothin' 
o' that kind. Wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a 
Wonus or a angel, Sammy? 

Sam. Ah! what, indeed? 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 405 

Tony. You might jist as veil call her a griffin, or a uni- 
corn, or a king's arms at once, which is wery veil known to 
be a col-lection o' fabulous animals. 

Sam. Just as well. 

Tony. Drive on, Sammy. 

Sam. " Afore I see you I thought all women was alike." 

Tony. So they are. 

Sam. "But now I find what a regular soft-headed, ink- 
red'lous turnip I must ha' been ; for there ain't nobody like 
you though / like you better than nothin' at all." (I thought 
it best to make that rayther strong.) " So I take the privi- 
lidge of the day, Mary, my dear, — as the gen'lem'n in diffi- 
culties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, — to tell you that 
the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on 
my heart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever 
a likeness was took by the profeel macheen, altho' it does 
finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete 
with a hook at the end to hang it up by and all in two 
minutes and a quarter." 

Tony. I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy. 

Sam. No, it don't. " Except of me, Mary, my dear, as 
your walentine and think over what I 've said. My dear 
Mary, I will now conclude." That's all. 

Tony. That 's rather a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy ? 

Sam. Not a bit on it. She'll vish there wos more, and 
that 's the great art o' letter writin'. 

Tony. Well, there 's somethin' in that ; and I wish your 
mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the 
same genteel principle. Ain't you a-goin' to sign it ? 

Sam. That 's the difficulty. I don't know what to sign it. 

Tony. Sign it " Veller." _ 

Sam. Won't do. Never sign a walentine with your own 
name. 

Tony. Sign it " Pickvick," then. It 's a wery good name, 
and a easy one to spell. 

Sam. The wery thing. I could end it with a werse; 
what do you think? 

Tony. I don't like it, Sam. I never know'd a respectable 
coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made a affectin' copy 
o' werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery. 

Sam. This sounds fine, though. 

"Your love-sick 
Pickwick." 



406 SELECTED READINGS 

Tony. I must be a-goin', Sammy. Yot I came 'ere to 
see you about vos your governor. If he does get in prison 
I've the thought o' a vay of gettin' him out in a turn-up 
bedstead, unbeknown to the turnkeys, Sammy, or dressin' 
him up like an old 'ooman vith a green wail. 

Sam. That would n't do at all. 

Tony. Me and a cab'net-maker has dewised a plan for 
gettin' him out. A pianner, Samivel, a pianner. 

Sam. Wot do you mean? 

Tony. A pianner forty, Samivel, as he can have on hire ; 
vun as von't play, Sammy. 

Sam. And wot 'ud be the good o' that ? 

Tony. Let him send to my friend the cab'net-maker's to 
fetch it back, Sammy. Are you avake now ? 

Sam. No. 

Tony. There ain't no vurks in it. It 'ud hold him easy, 
vith his hat and shoes on, and breathe through the legs, vich 
is holler. Have a passage ready taken for 'Merriker. The 
'Merrikin gov'ment vill never give him up, ven vunce they 
finds as he's got money to spend, Sammy. Let him stop 
there till the widder is dead, and then let him come back and 
write a book about the 'Merrikins as '11 pay all his expenses 
and more, if he blows 'em up enough. 

Sam. But he ain't in prison yet, you old picter-card. He 
ain't tried till to-morrow. 

Tony. That 's true, Sammy, but it 's against a widder and 
he 's sure to lose. Howsomeever, I 've been a-turnin' the bus'- 
ness over in my mind. I s'pose he '11 want to call some wit- 
nesses to speak to his character, or p'raps to prove a alleybi, 
and he may make his-self easy. I 've got some friends as '11 
do either for him, but my adwice 'ud be this here, — never 
mind the character, and stick to the alleybi. Nothing like 
a alleybi, Sammy, nothing. Verever he 's a-goin' to be tried, 
my boy, a alleybi 's the thing to get him off. A alleybi, 
Sammy, a alleybi. 



Arranged by Anna Morgan. 



Dickens. 



SCENE FROM "THE MIGHTY DOLLAR" 

LORD CAIRNGORME. Well, madam, to resume our 
conversation. I contend that the American women 
are the prettiest in the world. It is very remarkable, you 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 407 

know, when yon come to think of it — what a country yon 
are, and what a short time yon have had to become so pretty. 
Only think of it, two hundred years ago you were red sav- 
ages, going about with feathers and tomahawks, and very 
little else. It 's astonishing, you know. You are not called 
a go-ahead country for nothing. 

Mrs. Gilflory. Vous ate trop bong; excuse me, my lord, 
for dropping so suddenly into French, but I 've lived so long 
abroad that it has become second nature to me. [Turning 
to her niece Libby, who is up the stage flirting with Charlie 
Brood.'] Libby, Libby dear, what are you doing? Excuse 
me, my lord, but that niece of mine has quite embarrassed 
me. I know you will excuse me, my lord; but, as I was 
saying, — Libby, Libby dear ! — Oh, she has driven what I 
was about to say completely out of my head. Excuse me, 
my lord, excuse me. 

Lord C. Eeally, if you wouldn't call me "my lord," 
you would oblige me very much. I feel that I am among 
simple republican people who set no value on titles except 
Judge, Mayor, Colonel, or General, and I feel sadly em- 
barrassed when I am addressed according to the custom of 
my own country. If you would only call me General or 
Judge, you don't know how much obliged I would be. 

Mrs. G. Quel plaisanterie ! Excuse me, I 've lived so long 
abroad — but do not feel embarrassed, I beg. Our best 
society rather fancies lords. You would say so too, if you 
could see how it runs after them. 

Lord C. Now tell me, what are your theories about the 
equality of man? 

Mrs. G. Oh, we're not talking so much about that as 
we were — many of our best families feel so much better 
than their fellow-citizens that they would not object to 
wearing titles themselves, just to show the distinction. Say 
way, my lord, say vray. 

Enter the Honorable Bardwell Slote 

Slote. You will excuse me, Mrs. General Gilflory. What 
you say may be quite true, but I flatter myself I am as good 
as any lord, by an a. 1. m. — a large majority. 

Lord C. I dare say you do. You look like one of the 
kind who think themselves better. [Asi^e.] Another re- 
markable product for a young country. 

Slote. Well, Mrs. General Gilflory, we missed you from 



408 SELECTED READINGS 

the ballroom — why, what's the matter? You seem an- 
noyed. 

Mrs. G. And I don't wonder at it. Libby gives me such 
a world of trouble. I wish she 'd venny seci. — Excuse my 
French, I 've lived so long abroad. 

Slote. Oui 9 

Mrs. G. Oh, do you speak French? 

Slote. Ong pew. I prefer English, by a large majority. 

Mrs. G. Oh, what a delightful language it is ! How poet- 
ical even the commonest things sound in it ! Pom de tare — 
oh, natural ! How different that sounds from boiled potatoes ! 

Slote. So it does; but then the potatoes taste the same 
in both languages, and there 's where the potatoes have got 
the best of it, I think. 

Mrs. G-. Well, to return to our muttons. Libby gives 
me such a world of trouble. Her mother being dead, I am 
her only protector. 8a sel protectress. I can't do anything 
with her; she will insist upon remaining unfashionable in 
spite of all my efforts to make her a woman of tong. She 's 
been all over Europe with me. 

Slote. So she 's been all over Europe with you, has she ? 

Mrs. G-. Yes, she has seen the Colloshum at Naples; the 
Parthenian in London, and the Bridge of Sighs at Mt. 
Vesuvius, but she won't be refined. Sai triste, nes par? 

Slote. Of course, when you were abroad you visited the 
Dardanelles ? 

Mrs. G. Oh, yes; we dined with them. — But she 
won't be refined. Sai triste, nes par? 

Slote. Oui. 

Mrs. G. Libby, Libby dear ! Oh, dear me, how she does 
annoy me! It's a maxim of mine that une waso don la 
mang vot de se larum. 

Slote. So I perceive. Excuse me, madam, but I did n't 
quite understand that last remark of yours. 

Mrs. G. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. 

Slote. Yes, yes; if the one in the hand's a turkey! 

Mrs. G. Oh, you droll! I have done my very best to 
improve her mind. I have only let her read the very best 
books, such as Charles Dickson's " David Copperplate," 
Jack Bunsby's " Pilgrim's Progress," and Tom Moore's 
" Maladies " ; and to think that after the instruction I have 
given her she should look no higher than that silly Billy 
of a man, Mr. Charlie Brood! 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 409 

Slote. What, that youngster that I saw chasing her 
about here? Surely, you will never let her marry such a 
donkey as he is? 

Mrs. G. Why, he is as rich as Creosote. He's worth a 
million. 

Slote. Oh, pardon me, madam; when I called him a 
donkey I did it in a parliamentary sense. [Aside.] I must 
cultivate the young man's acquaintance. 

Mrs. G. Now, my dear Judge, you must remember that 
Libby's ancestors came over on the " Cauliflower " and 
settled on Plymouth Church, therefore I naturally look for 
somebody with blood to be her husband. 

Slote. Blood — well, you don't object to some flesh and 
bones, do you ? 

Mrs. G. Oh, you wag! So I have set my mind upon 
her marrying Lord Cairngorme. 

Slote. Lord Cairngorme — what, he of the eye-glass 
and shirt collar? Pardon me, madam, for keeping you 
standing so long. Let me present you with a seat; we can 
continue our conversation so much more at our ease. 

Mrs. G. [Seated in a rustic chair.] Thank you so 
much, Judge, bu mo fectro dono. 

Slote. And so, madam, you tell me you lived in France 
for many years. 

Mrs. G. Yes, Judge. I lived in Paris long enough to 
become a Parasite. Libby, Libby dear ! There 's that Libby 
flirting with Charlie Brood and neglecting Lord Cairn- 
gorme. Excuse me, Judge. Libby, Libby dear! 

Benjamin Edward Woolf. 



SCENE FROM "THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL" 

[This selection offers unusual opportunities for the cultivation of 
the voice and the acquiring of fine deportment.] 

Act II 

Sir Peter's House 
Enter Lady Teazle and Sir Peter, l. 
IE P. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I '11 not bear it ! 



s 



Lady T. (r.) Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it 
or not, as you please; but I ought to have my own way in 
every thing; and what's more, I will too. What! though I 



410 SELECTED READINGS 

was educated in the country, I know very well that women 
of fashion in London are accountable to nobody after they 
are married. 

Sir P. [l.] Very well, ma'am, very well — so a husband 
is to have no influence, no authority? 

Lady T. Authority! No, to be sure: — if you wanted 
authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not 
married me: I am sure you were old enough. 

Sir P. Old enough ! — ay — there it is. Well, well, 
Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by 
your temper, I '11 not be ruined by your extravagance. 

Lady T. My extravagance ! I 'm sure I 'm not more 
extravagant than a woman ought to be. 

Sir P. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more 
sums on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife ! to spend as much 
to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in winter as would 
suffice to turn the Pantheon into a green-house, and give a 
fete champetre at Christmas. 

Lady T. Lord, Sir Peter, am I to blame, because flowers 
are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the 
climate, and not with me. For my part, I 'm sure, I wish 
it was spring all the year round, and that roses grew under 
our feet! 

Sir P. Oons ! madam — if you had been born to this, I 
should n't wonder at your talking thus ; but you forget what 
your situation was when I married you. 

Lady T. No, no, I don't ; 't was a very disagreeable one, 
or I should never have married you. 

Sir Peter. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat 
a humbler style : — the daughter of a plain country squire. 
Recollect, Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your 
tambour, in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of 
keys at your side ; your hair combed smooth over a roll, and 
your apartment hung round with fruits in worsted of your 
own working. 

Lady T. yes ! I remember it very well, and a curious 
life I led. — My daily occupation to inspect the dairy, su- 
perintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt 
book, — and comb my aunt Deborah's lap-dog. 

Sir P. Yes, yes, ma'am, 't was so indeed. 

Lady T. And then, you know, my evening amusements ! 
To draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to 
make up; to play Pope Joan with the curate; to read a 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 411 

novel to my aunt; or to be stuck down to an old spinet to 
strum my father to sleep after a fox-chase. [Crosses, L. 

Sir P. (r.) I am glad you have so good a memory. — 
Yes, madam, these were the recreations I took you from; 
but now you must have your coach — vis-a-vis — and three 
powdered footmen before your chair; and, in the summer, 
a pair of white cats to draw you to Kensington gardens. 
No recollection, I suppose, when you were content to ride 
double, behind the butler, on a dock'd coach-horse. 

Lady T. (l.) No — I swear I never did that : I deny the 
butler and the coach-horse. 

Sir P. This, madam, was your situation ; and what have 
I done for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of 
fortune, of rank ; in short, I have made you my wife. 

Lady T. Well, then, — and there is but one thing more 
you can make me add to the obligation, and that is — 

Sir P. My widow, I suppose ? 

Lady T. Hem! hem! 

Sir P. I thank you, madam — but don't flatter yourself ; 
for though your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, 
it shall never break my heart, I promise you: however, I 
am equally obliged to you for the hint. [Crosses, L. 

Lady T. Then why will you endeavor to make yourself 
so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant 
expense ? 

Sir P. (l.) 'Slife, madam, I say, had you any of these 
little elegant expenses when you married me ? 

Lady T. Lud, Sir Peter! would you have me be out of 
the fashion? 

Sir P. The fashion, indeed! What had you to do with 
the fashion before you married me? 

Lady T. For my part, I should think you would like to 
have your wife thought a woman of taste. 

Sir P. Taste — Zounds ! madam, you had no taste when 
you married me! 

Lady T. That 's very true indeed, Sir Peter ; and after hav- 
ing married you I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. 
But now, Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily jangle, I 
presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's. 

Sir P. Ay, there's another precious circumstance — a 
charming set of acquaintance you have made there. 

Lady T. Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank and 
fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation. 



412 SELECTED READINGS 

Sir P. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of reputation with 
a vengeance: for they don't choose anybody should have a 
character but themselves! 

Lady T. What! would you restrain the freedom of 
speech ? 

Sir P. Ah ! they have made you just as bad as any one 
of the society. 

Lady T. Why, I believe I do bear a part with a tolera- 
ble grace. But I vow I bear no malice against the people 
I abuse. — When I say an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of 
pure good humor; and I take it for granted, they deal ex- 
actly in the same manner with me. But, Sir Peter, you 
know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too. 

Sir P. Well, well, I '11 call in just to look after my own 
character. 

Lady T. Then indeed you must make haste after me, 
or you'll be too late. So, good-bye to ye. 

{Exit Lady Teazle, R. 

Sir P. So — I have gained much by my intended ex- 
postulation: yet, with what a charming air she contradicts 
everything I say, and how pleasingly she shows her con- 
tempt for my authority! Well, though I can't make her 
love me, there is great satisfaction in quarrelling with her; 
and I think she never appears to such advantage, as when 
she is doing everything in her power to plague me. 

[Exit, l. 
Richard Brinsley Sheridan". 
Abridged by Anna Morgan. 



SCENE FROM "THE RIVALS" 

LUCY. Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in 
search of it; I don't believe there's a circulating 
library in Bath I ha'n't been at. 

Lydia. [Seated on a sofa.] And could not you get " The 
Reward of Constancy"? 

Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am. 

Lydia. Nor "The Fatal Connection"? 

Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am. 

Lydia. Nor "The Mistakes of the Heart"? 

Lucy. Ma'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. Bull said 
Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 413 

Lydia. Heigho! — Did you inquire for "The Delicate 
Distress"? or, "The Memoirs of Lady Woodford"? 

Lucy. Yes, indeed, ma'am, I asked everywhere for it; 
and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's but Lady 
Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled 
and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to read. 

Lydia. Heigho ! Well, child, what have you brought me ? 

Lucy. 0, here, ma'am ! This is " The Man of Feeling " 
and this " Peregrine Pickle." Here are " The Tears of 
Sensibility" and "Humphrey "Clinker." 

Lydia. Hold ! Here 's some one coming — Quick, see 
who it is! 

Lucy. 0, ma'am, here comes your aunt. 

Lydia. Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, 
quick ! 

Enter Mrs. Malaprop 

Mrs. M. There sits the deliberate simpleton who wants 
to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a fellow not 
worth a shilling. 

Lydia. Madam, I thought you once — 

Mrs. M. You thought, miss! I don't know any busi- 
ness you have to think at all — thought does not become a 
young woman. But the point I would request of you is, 
that you will promise to forget this fellow — to illiterate 
him from your memory. 

Lydia. Ah, madam! our memories are independent of 
our wills. It is not so easy to forget. 

Mrs. M. But I say it is, miss; there is nothing on 
earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about 
it. I 'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle 
as if he had never existed — and I thought it my duty so 
to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories 
don't become a young woman. 

Lydia. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be 
treated thus? 

Mrs. M. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from 
the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But 
tell me, will you promise me to do as you are bid? Will 
you take a husband of your friends' choosing? 

Lydia. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that had I no 
preference for any one else, the choice you have made would 
be my aversion. 



414 SELECTED READINGS 

Mrs. M. What business have you, miss, with preference 
and aversion? They don't become a young woman; and 
you ought to know that, as both always wear off, 't is safest 
in matrimony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I 
hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he 'd been 
a blackamoor — and yet, miss, you are sensible what a 
wife I made! and when it pleased Heaven to release me 
from him, 't is unknown what tears I shed ! But suppose I 
were to give you another choice, will you promise to give 
up this Beverley? 

Lydia. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that 
promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words. 

Mrs. M. Take yourself to your room. You are fit 
company for nothing but your own ill humors. 

Lydia. Willingly, ma'am. I cannot change for the 
worse. [Exit.] 

Mrs. M. There's a little intricate hussy for you! I 
would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a prog- 
eny of learning. I don't think so much learning becomes 
a young woman; for instance, I would never let her meddle 
with Greek, or Hebrew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, 
or Paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning; 
neither would it be necessary for her to handle any of your 
mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments. — But 
I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding school, 
in order to learn a little ingenuity, and artifice. Then she 
should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and as 
she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that 
she might know something of the contagious countries; 
above all, she should be a perfect mistress of orthodoxy, 
that is she might not mispronounce or misspell words so 
shamefully as girls usually do ; and likewise that she might 
reprehend the true meaning of what she is saying. This is 
what I would have a woman know, and I don't think there 
is a superstitious article in it. — Well, at any rate, I shall 
be glad to get her from under my intuition; she has some- 
how discovered my partiality for Sir Lucius O'Trigger. — • 
Sure, Lucy can't have betrayed me ! — No, the girl is such 
a simpleton, I should have made her confess it. — Lucy ! — 
Lucy ! — 

Enter Lucy 
Lucy. Did you call, ma'am? 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 415 

Mrs. M. Yes, girl. Did you see Sir Lucius while you 
was out? 

Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am, not a glimpse of him. 

Mrs. M. You are sure, Lucy, that you never men- 
tioned — 

Lucy. Oh, Gemini ! I 'd sooner cut my tongue out ! 

Mrs. M. Well, don't let your simplicity be imposed on. 

Lucy. No, ma'am. 

Mrs. M. So, come to me presently, and I '11 give you 
another letter to Sir Lucius; but mind, Lucy, if ever you 
betray what you are intrusted with (unless it be other 
people's secrets to me), you forfeit my malevolence for ever; 
and your being a simpleton shall be no excuse for your 
locality. 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 
Abridged by Anna Morgan. 



DIALOGUE FROM "CRITIC OF THE SCHOOL 
FOR WIVES " 

Scene 1 

Uraine, Elise 

URA. What ! cousin, has no one come to visit you ? 
El. No, not a soul. 

TTra. Really, it does surprise me that we both have been 
alone all day. 

El. Well, I 'm surprised myself, for 't is not customary ; 
your house, thank God, is the usual refuge of all the idlers 
of the court. 

Ura. To tell the truth, to me the afternoon seemed very 
lon£. 

El. And I, I thought it short. 

IJra. Fine minds, they say, love solitude. 

El. Fine minds, indeed! You know it was not that I 
meant. 

IJra. Well, as for me, I own that I like company. 

El. I like it too, but then I like it choice. The number 
of silly visits one has to endure among the rest is often the 
very reason why I like to be alone. 

IJra. Delicacy can only bear the presence of those who 
are refined. 



416 SELECTED READINGS 

El. People are too compliant in tolerating with com- 
posure all sorts of persons. 

Ura. Well, I enjoy the wise, but I divert myself with 
all the silly ones. 

El. Yes, but the silly ones do not get far before they 
bore you; most of them are not amusing on their second 
visit. But, apropos of silly people, will you not rid me of 
3 r our troublesome marquis? You can't expect to leave him 
on my hands forever, or that I will long endure his ever- 
lasting punning. 

Ura. Punning is all the fashion; they think it wit at 
court. 

El. Alas for those who strain all day to talk such empty 
jargon! A fine thing truly, to drag old jokes, raked from 
the mud of markets into the palace conversations ! No won- 
der those who affect that style of language know it is silly. 
All the worse therefore to take such pains to be so silly and 
make themselves such sorry jesters knowingly. I think them 
the less excusable, and if I were judge of the world I know 
well to what I would condemn such punsters. 

Ura. Well, let us drop the matter, which nettles you too 
much. 

Scene 2 

Galopin, Uranie, Elise 

Gal. Climene is here, madame, and asks to see you. 

Ura. Oh, Heaven ! what a visit ! 

El. You grumbled because you were alone, and Heaven 
has punished you. 

Ura. \To Gal.] Quick! go and tell her I am not at 
home. 

Gal. She has been told already that you are. 

Ura. What fool said that? 

Gal. 'T was I, madame. 

Ura. Little wretch ! I '11 teach you to give answers from 
yourself. 

Gal. Then I'll go tell her, madame, that you say you 
are out. 

Ura. Stop, you little animal! Let her come up; the 
mischief 's done. 

Gal. She is^ talking still to some one in the street. 

Ura. [To El.] Ah! cousin, how this visit does annoy 
me ! Just at this moment, too ! 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 417 

El. The lady is annoying in herself; I have always had 
a furious aversion to her ; and, begging her quality's pardon 
I think her the silliest fool that ever took to reasoning. 

TJea. Your epithets are rather strong. 

El. Well, she deserves them all, and more to boot if 
people did her justice. She is the most affected creature in 
the world. It really seems as though the structure of her 
body were out of order, and that her hips, her head, her 
shoulders were jerked by springs. She affects that languid, 
silly tone of voice, purses her mouth to make you think it 
small, and rolls her eyes to make them larger. 

Uea. Oh ! gently, please ; suppose she heard you ? 

El. No, she has not come up. I can't forget the night 
she wanted to see Damon, on the strength of his repute and 
the fine things the public say of him. You know the man, 
and his natural laziness in conversation. She invited him 
to supper as a wit, and never did he seem so stupid; the 
half-dozen persons she had gathered to enjoy his talk sat 
gazing at him with round eyes, as though he were a being 
not like others. They all considered he was there to feed 
them with bons mots, and that every word that left his lips 
must be impromptu wit, if he but asked for drink. He fooled 
them all by silence, and my lady was as much displeased 
with him as I with her. 

Uea. Hush, hush ! I am going to receive her at the door. 

El. Stay, one word more. I 'd like to see her married 
to that marquis. What a pair 't would be ! 

Ura. Do be silent! here she comes. 

Scene 3 

Ueanie, Elise, Climene, Galopin" 

Uea. Really, you are very late — 

Cli. Oh! for pity's sake, my dear, give me a chair at 
once. 

TJea. [To Gal.] An armchair, quick ! 

Cli. Ah, heavens! 

TJea. What is it? 

Cli. I cannot bear it ! 

Uea. But what's the matter? 

Cli. My heart is failing ! 

Uea. Is it hysterics ? 

Cli. Oh! no, no. 

27 



418 SELECTED READINGS 

Ura. Shall I unlace you ? 

Cli. Good heavens, no ! — Ah ! 

Ura. But where 's the pain ? When did it seize you ? 

Cli. Three hours ago — at the Palais Royal. 

Ura. How? 

Cli. For my sins, I went to see that wicked rhapsody 
" The School for Wives." I am fainting still from the nausea 
that it gave me — I think that I shall not recover for weeks. 

El. Just see how illness takes us unawares! 

Ura. I don't know what our constitutions are, my cousin's 
and mine, but we both went to see that very play last night, 
and came back gay and healthy. 

Cli. What! you have seen it? 

Ura. Yes, and heard it too, from end to end. 

Cli. My dear ! and you did not go into convulsions ? 

Ura. I am not so delicate, thank God ! For my part, I 
thought the comedy more like to cure its hearers than to hurt 
them. 

Cli. Oh ! how can you say so ? How can a person with 
common sense put forth that proposition ? You cannot, with 
impunity, fly in the face of reason. Candidly, is there a soul 
that can relish the mawkish stuff with which that comedy 
is seasoned ? For myself, I own I could not find a grain of 
spice in all of it. 

El. I thought myself the play was good, but madame's 
eloquence is so persuasive, she turns things in a manner so 
delightful, that we must all agree in sentiment with her, no 
matter what our own opinion is. 

Ura. As for me, I am not so complying. To tell my 
honest thought, I think that comedy among the best the 
author has produced. 

Cli. Ah ! When you say that you make me pity you ; I 
can't endure that you should have such poor discernment. 
How can any one possessing virtue find pleasure in a play 
which keeps our modesty forever in alarm and soils the 
imagination constantly. 

El. How charmingly she put it ! You are indeed a cruel 
critic, madame. 

Cli. [To Ura.] My dear, correct your judgment. For 
your own honor's sake, don't tell the world you liked that 
comedy. 

Ura. I do not see what you can find there to offend your 
modesty. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 419 

Cli. Alas! the whole of it. I do maintain no honest 
woman can see that play without confusion. 

Ura. For my part, I see no harm in it. 

Cli. So much the worse for you. 

Ura. So much the better, it seems to me. I look at 
things on the side they are shown to me ; I do not twist them 
round to search for what should not be seen. 

Cli. A woman's virtue — 

Ura. A woman's virtue is not in cant. It ill becomes her 
to assume to be more virtuous than those who are truly 
virtuous. Affectation is worse in this particular matter than 
in others. I know nothing so ridiculous as this supersensi- 
tive virtue which finds evil everywhere, supposes criminal 
meaning in the most innocent words, and takes offence at 
shadows. Believe me, those who make this great ado are not 
considered better women. On the contrary, their whispering 
severity and their affected airs excite the censure of the world 
against the actions of their lives. People are charmed to find 
some blame to put upon them. To give you an example: 
opposite to the box in which we sat to see this comedy were 
certain women who, by their behavior throughout the play, 
— hiding their faces, turning away their heads affectedly — 
excited men to say a hundred slighting things about their 
conduct, which would not have been said without it. 

Cli. Ah ! heavens ! say no more ; you cast me into un- 
utterable confusion. [To Uranie.] Now we are two against 
you, and obstinacy ill becomes a clever woman. 

Moliere. 

SCENES FROM "THE LAST DAYS OF 
POMPEII " 

IONE AND NTDIA 

Scene: A room in Ione's %ouse. Ione sealed at table, 
right; two fan girls at back of Ione. Enter slave, left. 

SLAVE. A messenger from Glaucus desires to be ad- 
mitted. [Pause.'] She is blind. She will do her com- 
mission to none but thee. 

Ione. [Speaking to herself, .] What can he want with 
me? What message can he send? [Slow music; curtain 
is drawn aside, and Nydia, led by an attendant, enters 
with noiseless step, bearing a beautiful vase of flowers; 



420 SELECTED READINGS 

remains silent a moment as if listening for some sound to 
direct her.~\ 

Nydia. Will the noble lone deign to speak that I may 
know whither to steer these benighted steps, and that I may 
lay my offerings at her feet? 

Ione. [Soothingly.'] Fair child, give not thyself the 
pain to cross this slippery floor. My attendant will bring 
to me what thou hast to present. [Motions handmaid to 
take vase.] 

Nydia. I may give these flowers to none but thee. 
[Crosses slowly to Ione, kneels and proffers flowers. Ione 
takes flowers and places them on table at her side; raises 
Nydia gently, and attempts to seat Nydia on low stool at 
her side. Nydia resists.] 

Nydia. I have not yet discharged my office. [Takes 
letter of Glaucus from her bosom.] This will perhaps ex- 
plain why he who sent me chose so unworthy a messenger to 
lone. 

[Ione takes letter with trembling hand, which Nydia de- 
tects; sighs; stands with folded arms and downcast look 
before the proud and stately Ione. Submission — Ione 
waves for attendants to withdraw. Exeunt attendants. 
Ione gazes upon form of Nydia with surprise and com- 
passion; retires to left centre, opens and reads letter.] 

Ione. Glaucus to lone sends more than he dares to utter. 
Is lone ill ? Thy slaves tell me " No/' and that assurance 
comforts me. Has Glaucus offended lone ? Ah ! that ques- 
tion I may not ask from them. For five days I have been 
banished from thy presence; thou hast banished also the 
common flatterers that flock around thee. Canst thou con- 
found me with them? It is not possible. Have they slan- 
dered me to thee, lone ? Thou wilt not believe them. Deign 
to see me, listen to me, and after that exclude me if thou 
wilt. I meant not so soon to speak, but I love thee. Accept 
my homage and my vows. One word more — Think not 
too highly of the Egyptian. Arbaces is not one to be 
trusted. Believe nothing that he can say to my disfavor. 
Farewell. [Kisses letter, places it in her bosom, turns to 
Nydia, who has remained in the same place and the same 
posture.] Wilt thou sit, my child, while I write an answer 
to this? 

Nydia. [Coldly.] You will answer it then. The slave 
that accompanied me will take back your answer. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 421 

Ione. Stay with me, Nydia. Trust me, your service 
shall bje light. [Nydia bows her head.] What is your name, 
fair girl? 

Nydia. They call me Nydia. 

Ione. Your country? 

Nydia. The land of Olympus-Thessaly. 

Ione. [Caressingly.] Thou shalt be to me a friend. 
Meanwhile, I beseech thee, do not stand. [Nydia sits at 
table.'] There, now thou are seated, I can leave thee for an 
instant. [Exit.] 

Nydia. She loves him. Ah! what happiness, what bliss 
to be ever by his side, to hear his voice! And she can see 
him. Oh, Glaucus, three happy days of unspeakable de- 
light have I known since I passed thy threshold; and now 
my heart tears itself from thee, and the only sound it utters 
bids me die. 

Re-enter Ione reading letter 

" Ione to Glaucus, greeting : Come to me, Glaucus ; 
come to-morrow. I may have been unjust to thee, but I will 
tell thee at least the fault that has been imputed to thy 
charge. Henceforth fear not the Egyptian; fear none. 
Thou sayest thou hast expressed too much, — alas, in these 
hasty words I have already done so. Farewell." 

Nydia. [Starting from her seat.] You have written to 
Glaucus ? 

Ione. I have. 

Nydia. And will he thank the messenger who gives to 
him thy letter? [Pausing and speaking in a calmer tone.] 
The lightest word of coldness from thee will sadden him; 
the lightest kindness will rejoice. If it be the first, let the 
slave take back thy answer. If it be the last, let me. 

Ione. [Evasively.] And why wouldst thou be the bearer 
of my letter? 

Nydia. It is so, then. Ah ! how could it be otherwise ? 
Who could be unkind to Glaucus? 

Ione. [With reserve.] My child, thou speakest warmly. 
Glaucus, then, is amiable in thine eyes? 

Nydia. Noble Ione, Glaucus has been to me what neither 
Fortune nor the gods have been — a friend. 

Ione. [Bending down and hissing Nydia.] Thou art 
grateful, and deservedly so. Why should I blush to say that 
Glaucus is worthy of thy gratitude? Go, my Nydia; take 



422 SELECTED READINGS 

to him thyself this letter; but return again. Nydia, I have 
no sister; wilt thou be one to me? 

Nydia. [Embarrassed, hissing Ione's hand.] One boon, 
fair lone, may I dare to ask it ? 

Ione. Thou canst not ask what I will not grant. 

Nydia. They tell me that -thou art beautiful beyond 
loveliness of earth. Alas, I cannot see that which gladdens 
the world. Wilt thou suffer me then to pass my hand over 
thy face ? That is my sole criterion of beauty, and I usually 
guess aright. [Without waiting for a reply Nydia passes 
her hand over Ione's face, brow, hair, cheek, neck, etc.'] I 
know now that thou art beautiful, and I can picture thee to 
my darkness henceforth and fofever. 

[Slow music. Exit Nydia with her attendant, left. Ione 
draws forth the letter and kisses it. If no curtain, Ione 
slowly passes out — R.~\ 

Julia and her slaves 

Scene 2. [Julia, in her chamber, surrounded by five or 
six slaves, table containing mirror, cosmetics, perfume, 
paints, jewels, combs, ribbons; gold pin at feet of 
Julia ; nearby a second table containing a silver basin, 
an extinguished lamp, a roll of papyrus. Julia leans 
indolently back on her seat, while hairdresser piles one 
above another a mass of small curls. Slave stands be- 
side hairdresser; other attendants grouped about.] 
Hairdresser. Put that pin more to the right, — lower, 
stupid one. Now put in the flowers. What, fool ! not that 
dull pink; it must be the brightest flowers that can alone 
suit the cheek of the young Julia. 

Julia. Gently! [Stamping foot violently.] You pull 
my hair as if you were plucking up a weed. 

Hairdresser. [To slave.] Dull thing! Do you not 
know how delicate is thy mistress? Now, then, the ribbon. 
That's right. [Presenting hand glass.] Fair Julia, look in 
the mirror. Saw you anything so lovely as yourself? [A 
slave, hitherto idle, now arranges jewels; earrings, two in 
each ear; massive bracelets of gold; chain to its talisman 
cut in crystal attached; buckle on left shoulder; girdle of 
purple ribbon wrought with gold; rings fitted to every joint 
of the fingers. Julia regards herself with complacent vanity, 
as she reclines upon her seat.] 
Julia. [To slave, in listless tone.] Now read to me the 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 423 

enamored couplets of Tibullus. [Slave takes papyrus and 
seats herself on low stool beside Julia, as another slave ad- 
mits Nydia.] 

Nydia. [Stopping, crossing her hands upon her breast.] 
Julia, I have obeyed your commands. 

Julia. You have done well, flower-girl. Approach, — 
you may take a seat. [Slave places stool by Julia, and 
Nydia seats herself. Julia, looking sharply at Nydia, and 
motioning attendants to withdraw, speaks mechanically.'] 
You serve the Neapolitan, lone? 

Nydia. I am with her at present. 

Julia. Is she as handsome as they say? 

Nydia. I know not. How can I judge ? 

Julia. Ah! I should have remembered. But thou hast 
ears, if not eyes. Do thy fellow slaves tell thee she is hand- 
some? 

Nydia. They tell me that she is beautiful. 

Julia. Ahem ! — Say they that she is tall ? 

Nydia. Yes. 

Julia. Why, so am I. Doth Glaueus visit her much? 

Nydia. [Sighing.] Daily. 

Julia. Daily, indeed! Does he find her handsome? 

Nydia. I think so, since they are soon to be wedded. 

Julia. [Turning pale and starting from her couch. Pause. 
Betrays emotion.] They tell me thou art a Thessalian? 

Nydia. And truly. 

Julia. Thessaly is the land of magic and love-philtres. 
Knowest thou of any love charm? 

Nydia. How should I? No, assuredly not. 

Julia. The worse for thee. I could have given thee gold 
enough to have purchased thy freedom hadst thou been more 
wise. 

Nydia. But what can induce the beautiful and wealthy 
Julia to ask that question of her servant? Has she not 
money, youth, and loveliness? Are they not love-charms 
enough to dispense with magic? 

Julia. To all but one person. Knowest thou no magi- 
cian who possesses the art of which thou art ignorant? 

Nydia. Yes. I have heard that less than a league from 
the city, at the base of Vesuvius, there dwells a powerful 
witch. Her art can bring thy lover to thy feet. Seek her 
and mention to her the name of Arbaces. She fears that 
name, and will give thee her most potent philtres. 



424 SELECTED READINGS 

Julia. My father has invited him to a banquet the day 
following to-morrow. I shall then have the opportunity to 
administer it. I will seek her this very day. Nay, why not 
this very hour? 

Nydia. [Anxiously.] May I visit thee afterward to learn 
the result? 

Julia. Yes, come hither at the same hour to-morrow, and 
thou shalt know all. Stay! take this bracelet for the new 
thought thou hast inspired me with. 

Nydia. [Pushing bracelet aside.] I cannot take thy 
present, but young as I am, I can sympathize unbought with 
those who love, and love in vain. 

Julia. Thou speakest like a free woman, — and thou 
shalt be free. 

[Slow music. Exit Nydia — L. — with her attendant. Cur- 
tain. If no curtain is used, let Julia exit — B. — fol- 
lowed by all her attendants.] 

[Note: These scenes make an effective and interesting study in 
characterization and pantomime. The costumes should be simple 
Grecian ones, and the background soft green curtains. When a classic 
couch and stools are not available, boxes covered with dull stuff may 
be utilized. lone should be tall and fair, classic in style. The suc- 
cess of the girl who plays Nydia depends largely upon her ability to 
effect an appearance of blindness. Julia should be a brunette, proud 
and dictatorial in temperament.] 

IONE AND GLAUCUS 

From the Same 

Scene : The witch's cavern 

Enter Glaucus and Ione, accompanied by a slave. Thunder 
and lightning 

Glaucus. Dost thou fear ? 
Ione. [Softly.] Not with thee. 

Glaucus. [Removing his cloalc and putting it about 
Ione.] We must find the best shelter we can. 
[They discover a cavern in which a fire burns, and over it 

a small cauldron; a rude lamp stands on a tall thin 

column of iron; a profusion of reeds and herbs about. 

An old hag sits before the fire with stony eyes turned 

upon them.] 
Glaucus. It is a dead thing. 
Ione. [Clinging to Glaucus.] Nay, it stirs. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 425 

Slave. Oh, away ! Away ! It is the Witch of Vesuvius. 

Witch. Who are ye? And what do ye here? 

Glaucus. We are storm-beaten wanderers from the neigh- 
boring city ; we crave shelter and the comfort of your hearth. 

Witch. Come to the fire if ye will. I never welcome 
living thing save the owl, the fox, the toad, and the viper; 
so I cannot welcome ye; but come to the fire without wel- 
come. 

[Glaucus relieves Ione of her outer garments, places Tier 
on a log of wood, fans the fire; slave also removes her 
long palla and creeps timidly to the opposite corner of 
the hearth.] 

Ione. We disturb you, I fear. 

Witch. [After a pause.] Tell me, are ye brother and 
sister ? 

Ione. {Blushing.'] No. 

Witch. Are ye married? 

Glaucus. Not so. 

Witch. Ho ! Lovers ! Ha, ha, ha ! 

[Pantomime of fear between Glaucus, Ione, and Slave.] 

Glaucus. [Sternly.] Why dost thou laugh, old crone? 

Witch. [Absently.] Did I laugh? 

Glaucus. [Whispering.] She is in her dotage. 

Witch. Thou liest. 

Glaucus. Thou art an uncourteous welcomer. 

Ione. Hush, provoke her not, dear Glaucus. 

Witch. I will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered 
ye were lovers. It was because it is a pleasure to the old 
and withered to look upon young hearts like yours, and to 
know the time will come when you will loathe each other — • 
loathe, loathe, ha-ha-ha! 

Ione. The gods forbid! Thou knowest little of love, 
poor woman, or thou wouldst know that it never changes. 

Glaucus. Hast thou dwelt here long? 

Witch. Ah, yes. 

Glaucus. It is but a dread abode. 

Witch. Ha, thou may'st well say that. Hell is beneath 
us ! [Pointing to earth.] I will tell thee a secret ; the dim 
things below are preparing much for ye above — you, the 
young, the thoughtless, and the beautiful. 

Glaucus. Thou utterest but evil words, ill becoming the 
hospitable. In future I will brave the tempest rather than 
thy welcome. 



426 SELECTED READINGS 

Witch. Thou wilt do well. None should ever seek me, 
save the wretched. 

Glaucus. Why the wretched ? 

Witch. [With ghastly grin.] I am the witch of the 
mountain ; my trade is to give hope to the hopeless : for the 
crossed in love I have philtres; for the avaricious, promises 
of treasure; for the malicious, potions of revenge; for the 
happy and the good, I have only what life has — curses! 
Trouble me no more. 

[Glaucus discovers snake, seizes log and deals a dexterous 
blow.] * 

Witch. [Springing up, confronting Glaucus with flash- 
ing eyes, with slow, steady voice.] Thou hast had shelter 
under my roof and warmth at my hearth; thou hast re- 
turned evil for good; thou hast smitten the thing that loved 
me and was mine, — now hear thy punishment. I curse 
thee : May thy love be blasted ; may thy name be blackened ; 
may the infernals mark thee; may thy heart wither and 
scorch ! And thou, — [Turning to Ione.] 

Glaucus. Hag, forbear ! Me thou hast cursed, and I com- 
mit myself to the gods. I defy and scorn thee ; but breathe 
one word against yon maiden, and I will convert the oath on 
thy foul lips to the dying groan. Beware! 

Witch. [Laughing wildly.] I have done, for in thy doom 
is she who loves thee accursed. Glaucus, thou art doomed! 
[Turns her face and kneels beside the fire.] 

Ione. [Terrified.] Oh, Glaucus, what have we done? 
Let us hasten from this place. The storm has ceased. Good 
mistress, forgive him, recall thy words; accept this peace 
offering. [Places purse on hag's lap.] 

Witch. Away ! Away ! The oath once woven the Fates 
only can untie ! Away ! 

Glaucus. [Impatiently.] Come, dearest, come. 

Ione. [Bursting into tears.] Preserve us, ye gods! 
Preserve my Glaucus. 

[Arbaces appears at mouth of cavern, pauses, crosses the 
stage with stealthy mien. Witch starts upon seeing 
him.] 

Witch. Who art thou? 

Arbaces. I am he from whom all cultivators of magic 
have stooped to learn. 

* This action should take place at the entrance or behind a screen, when the scene 
is given on a platform. 



SCENES AND DIALOGUES 427 

Witch. There is but one such man, — Arbaces, the 
Egyptian. 

Arbaces. Look again. [Drawing aside his robe he reveals 
a cincture seemingly of fire around his waist, in the centre 
an engraved plate which the Witch recognizes, rises hastily 
and throws herself at the feet of Arbaces.] 

Witch. [In a voice of deep humility.'] The Lord of the 
mighty Girdle! Vouchsafe my homage. 

Arbaces. Kise, I have need of thee. [Seating himself 
where Ione had sat, motions Witch to resume her seat. She 
obeys.'] Thou sayest that thou art the daughter of the 
ancient Etrurian tribes. [Witch bows her head.] Hear me, 
then, and obey. Thou art deeply skilled in the secrets of 
deadly herbs; thou knowest those which arrest life. Do I 
overrate thy skill? 

Witch. Mighty Hermes, such lore is indeed mine own. 

Arbaces. It is well. There cometh to thee by to-morrow's 
starlight a vain maiden, seeking of thine art a love-charm 
to fascinate from another the eyes that should utter but soft 
tales to her own; instead of thy philtres, give the maiden 
one of thy most powerful poisons. Let the lover breathe his 
vows to the Shades. 

Witch. [Trembling violently.] Pardon, dread master, 
but this I dare not. The law is sharp and vigilant, they 
will seize, will slay me. 

Arbaces. For what purpose, then, thy herbs and potions ? 

Witch. [Hiding face in hands.] Years ago I was not 
the thing that I am now. I loved, I fancied myself 
beloved. 

Arbaces. [Aside.] This foul thing has yet human 
emotions. Love is fit only for youth, age should harden our 
hearts to all things but ourselves. [Pacing the cavern.] 
Accursed be it, — this- insect, this Glaucus ! I tell thee by 
Nemesis, he must die. 

Witch. [Glaring fiercely.] Glaucus, saidst thou, mighty 
master? 

Arbaces. Ay, so he is called, but what matters the name ? 
Let it not be heard as that of a living man three days from 
this date. 

Witch. Hear me ! I am thy thing, thy slave ! spare me ! 
If I give to the maiden thou speakest of that which would 
destroy the life of Glaucus, I shall surely be detected; if, 
instead, I give that which shall blast the brain, and make 



428 SELECTED READINGS 

him an abject, raving, benighted thing, will not thv ve™* 

Zl e JT lly n SatG A % ? b jeCt ^ attained^ ^ 
akbaoes. 0, witch, no longer the servant hnf +i, rt • x • 

the equal of Arbaces/how much brighter s woma^'wit' 
even m vengeance, than ours! Thou shaft w f / 1' 

Deveiage. to-morrow night we meet again. S y 

1 jZf°! 0m Us Ste P\ t0 mtmnce > 9^es after Mm; moon- 
light streams upon her form and face. She slowly re- 
enters; droningly picks up purseS V 
Witch. I love to look at you, for when I see you I feel 
that I am indeed of power. Twenty years' longer of life! 

. Edwabd Buxwer-Lytton 

Arranged by Anna Morgan. 



LPBJL'78 




H 



H 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



021 100 525 7 



B Hi 
Us H 



^b 






V,', .■•''» 'i'mVjX f?'- r!t^' ' 




I 
HBHWl 



M 



m m 
H 

8313 I H 




■ 

WtiBm i'/m 

m m 



■I 



#1 



^h 



